


Sherlock, Plus One

by Smithy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Brief John/Original Female Character, Christmas, Complete, Eventual Johnlock, F/M, Fingering, Kissing, M/M, New Year, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sentimental Sherlock, Slow Build, Tension, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:25:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 26,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smithy/pseuds/Smithy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's mother invites him over every Christmas. Usually, he screws the ridiculous, Ivory coloured invite up and throws it behind the sofa, and proceeds to sulk for at least the next 48 Hours. </p><p>This year, something made him hesitate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. November 12th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is entirely un-beta'd. It's published exactly as I write it. Any errors are mine.

It was November the 12th when John heard his first Christmas song of the year, on the radio. It was a Tuesday. Everything bad happens on Tuesdays. He'd noted the bitter nip in the London air as he went for his lunch break, and the way his breath swirled before him, but thought no more of it. Well, other than he might need to start wearing his winter coat to work.

But then he head it. Tesco. Approximately 12:05 PM . _Driving home for Christmas_. Was that it, then? Another year gone, again? Only to be reduced to _Chris Rea_ crooning away? It was too early for it all. He'd only been marveling at fireworks the last week. It had been a date, with Charlotte, the young girl he sat with in Costa that week. Sherlock asked ( _demanded._ ) that he could come, and who was John to deny him that? If it kept Sherlock quiet. And he would rather the mad man watched other people's fireworks, than attempt to make his own.

The night had been a disaster; from Charlotte all-but screaming with every explosion of colour, and Sherlock giving a minute by minute history of Guy Fawkes. It was an ultimately surreal night, with the way his toes froze like ice in his boots, and Charlotte's infuriating squeaks, Sherlock's constant drone. Yet, the thing that surprised him most was not that he'd wasted another £20 on this catastrophe of a date, but that in that moment, looking up at Sherlock as he rambled on, the warm glow from the rainbow-coloured fireworks made him look _attractive_. His cheekbones casting shadows, his eyes glistening, his lips plump. How the hell was it that Charlotte was on a date with John, and Sherlock stood there, remaining as aloof and single as ever? Did the man even feel attraction? 

_Stop thinking about it, Watson._

Grabbing his usual lunch of the budget ham and cheese sandwich, a bottle of Diet Coke, and a Twix bar, John quickly shuffled forwards in the queue, desperate to escape the soft, sentimental singing. Christmas. It was Christmas, already. It was that thought which plagued his mind, as he quickly ate his food, in his office. Christmas meant the coming of an assortment of tasks. Organizing parties, attending said parties, 'Secret Santa' gifts, Sherlock's gift. Oh, god, what do you get Sherlock? After last year's disaster, it wasn't even worth thinking about.

John received three texts from Sherlock between lunch and the end of the day. Not that he was counting. It was merely that each time he heard his phone vibrate in his jacket pocket, it made him smile. It was usually just stupid things like "We need milk" or "I think I broke the toaster." He hated to admit it, but having Sherlock bug him was a little injection of sanity into his methodical day in the surgery. A little reminder that there were people outside of these cold-ridden, flu-bound patients whom he cared about, and who thought about him, and often. But then again, having Sherlock tell him he broke the toaster -again- was never that great of a text.

The text he had received? That was far worse. 

**Tues. 16:21PM :**  
 **I'm not going and you cannot and will not make me. -SH**

___________________________

When John finally arrived home, at little after 6pm, when the dark streets where lit by streetlights, their blinking glow flooding into the upstairs rooms of 221B. The charming, glistening light cast beautiful shadows around the room, soft shade and atmospheric warmth. Only to be disrupted by the imposing shadow of Sherlock, who stood central to the room, arms folded over his chest as if he had been waiting all day for John to return. For all John knew, he might have been. 

"Where have you been?" He demanded. Ah- Yes, well. Of course he'd been waiting. With a text like that, the detective was bound to be in need of somebody to rant at.

"At work, Sherlock. Earning us a living." He reminded the man, only half-playful in his teasing. "So, you gonna tell me what's going on?"

In lieu of a reply, Sherlock thrust a small rectangle, no bigger than the palm of his hand, towards John. _Mr and Mrs. Holmes cordially invite you to their annual Christmas celebrations. A room in our humble abode is offered to you between the 21st of December, and the 3rd of January, for [Mr. S. T. Holmes + One]._ John sighed, thumbs rubbing over the thick paper, as he watched John for a moment. "And this is my fault, because...?" He prompted. 

"Oh, shut up, of course it's not your fault!" Sherlock snapped, as he sulked his way over to the sofa, throwing himself onto it in a melodramatic display of fabric, skin, and dark curls. "Can't you _read_ , John?" He demanded, "Plus one! Plus one, who does mother think I am? My brother!" He rambled, arms flying about, as if he'd finally lost control of those endless legs.

John sighed, rolling his eyes, as he took the opportunity to pull of his khaki-coloured jacket, hanging it on the back of the door. He hated Sherlock when he was in this sort of mood, he was intolerable, and there was not a thing he could do to calm him down, except leave him to ramble on and convince him for long enough that he was listening. It was only then that there was a possibility he would calm down. "What do you mean about your brother?" John asked, as he moved to slump down in his arm-chair. How could it be that after spending all day cooped up in his office, sat in those stupid, creaky swivel chairs, that all he wanted to do was sit down?

"He _always_ has a date." Sherlock explained, "Last time, it was that ... girl. You know, the one from the telly?" John, of course, had no idea. "And the year before that, it was Luciana Berger. " He rambled on. John only watched the man. "Each year is the same. The family are astounded by my _brothers'_ choice in women, and sent into bitterness by my lack of one." Sherlock rambled. John's eyes flicked up, suddenly sparkling.

"Wait-You're..Hah! You're sulking because you don't have a girlfriend?" He chuckled, his left hand raising to pinch the bridge of his nose. "You're ridiculous, mate." 

"Am not!" Sherlock snapped, throwing his arms in the air, again, watching them flop back onto the leather of the sofa. 

"Er, Oh, yes you are, Sherlock. You basically just told me you're upset because Mycroft gets pretty girls, and you don't." John teased, leaning back triumphantly in his chair. "Look, mate, you could have anyone you wanted. All you have to do is search your name on Twitter, and there are hundreds of your 'fans' who'd love to meet you. Or, God, even Molly! Why not take Molly?" John reasoned, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair.

For a moment, that gentle thudding was the only sound that filled the room. Pat-Pat. Pat-Pat. Pat-Pat. That, and breathing. He could practically hear Sherock's mind whirring, a mechanical sound, or perhaps that monotonous whining a dial-up computer used to make. "I don't want to take Molly." Sherlock finally said, breaking the silence. 

"Oh." John replied. "Right."

"I don't want to take a woman." Sherlock replied, rolling the word on his tongue, as if it tasted funny, or didn't quite fit in his mouth. Maybe it didn't. Who even knew with Sherlock?

John was quiet, again, watching him. Sherlock seemed calmer, now, but there was still an edginess about him. That sort of jumpy mood that often suggested he'd broken something, or was planning a dangerous experiment. 

"I want to take you." Sherlock stated.

Sherlock ran to his room.

John could only stare at the place his mad friend had sat. "Me." He breathed. "Right. Me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luciana Berger is a Bristish MP. She is beautiful, but I am in no way affiliated with her, and she doesn't know she's in this fic. My political views don't reflect hers, blah blah blah. Basically, I used her because she's a beautiful, intelligent woman. Just Mycroft type, you might htink?


	2. November 13th-16th

John really shouldn't have gone to work the next day. 

Sherlock didn't text him once.

\-----

Thursday passed without so much as a hiccup. Literally. The surgery was deathly quiet: the cold, white-washed walls echoed the deafening silence around him, the squeaking laminate flooring could only offer the occasional ominous cry, all while John's office remained alone and unused . The tick of a nearby, un-located clock was the only real reassurance that time was passing at all. 

At little past 11am, an old lady came in, complaining of a bad back. John could offer little more advice than painkillers, and rest, unless the problem persisted. She gave John her thanks, and soon left. John predicted that he'd see her again, by the end of the week, no doubt, and then he would prescribe something a little stronger for her, and if it was serious, get Janet from down the hall to sort out an X-Ray or something. But after that patient, John saw nothing more of the illnesses that had swamped him just a few days before. 

Sherlock ignored John when he came home. Even when John threw the packet of Chocolate Digestives at him, Sherlock only sulked, and turned his back the other way.

\-----

Friday, although welcomed, came with a frantic rush of "I need antibiotics" and screaming children. It kept John busy, which he was thankful for, and meant he had less time to think about not-texting Sherlock, or how exactly he would talk to him about what John had started referring to as 'the event'. He'd decided, not long after it happened, that he needed to talk to Sherlock. If he'd given the ridiculous man the wrong impression somewhere along the way, that needed to be remedied. John Watson' wasn't, and could not, be gay. His sister, yes, he loved her and cared for her, and didnt mind one bit who she fucked. In fact, he'd really rather not think about it. The fact of the matter was: John was good at sex. With women. He knew what they liked, and how to please them - or at least, he hoped he knew. He prided himself on the thought that he'd be able to satisfy his lovers. He wanted them to be happy.

But sex with a man would be different. Icky. Unusual. Scary. _Sore_. Not that he was thinking about sex with Sherlock. Not one bit. It was just a thought. If Sherlock expected John to be his date, that suggested... relationship-y stuff: Holding hands through gloves, Kissing under the mistletoe, gazing into each other's eyes as little snowflakes fall around them. Sex. All of that: with a man. It was just too different. He couldn't host such thoughts in his mind. It was too much.

Which was what made him sure that he needed to talk to Sherlock. He didn't have a problem with Sherlock being gay, or... well.. whatever he felt towards John, his issue was that John could not feel the same. He wouldn't let himself, even if he did. They were friends. He wouldn't want to spoil anything, they were too close, and sex would only complicate things, as it always did.

At least, that _was_ what he was going to tell Sherlock. Until he came home that Friday night, to find a note scribbled hurriedly to inform John that Sherlock had "Gone out" and that he "shouldn't wait up" for Sherlock. And with those few words, John was reminded of the fragility of affection. Sherlock had no claim over John, and John had no such rights on Sherlock. If Sherlock wanted to go out -John daren't imagine what the man was doing- then he was free to do just that. And it shouldn't hurt John that he was not invited. If Sherlock didn't want him around, anymore, that was fine. Right? 

And so, John went about his evening. He'd considered asking Mike if he wanted to go for a pint, but now he was with Sherlock, it was best to keep on 'red alert', just in case the mad detective 'needed' him. Usually, it was just that he was too lazy to reach the tv remote, but if the man had gone out, who knew what would happen?

It was a little past 10, and John was fed, and considering to head off to bed, just as his phone vibrated in his pocket.

**Fri. 22:04 PM :**  
 **Johnnnn You'll need a nice and smart white shirt. -SH**

John wasted no time in forming his reply: _Seems like you're having fun. Put enough N's in my name? :) I've GOT a white shirt. Why do I need it? -JW_ Yet, he wasn't graced with a reply that evening, or the next morning. After waiting for a reply for almost an hour, John eventually decided to go to bed. There was no point in waiting for Sherlock: You could wait for a century, before realising that the waiting was pointless. He'd either never come, or had already delivered, without you noticing. There was no way of knowing which would happen, until it was too late. 

\----- 

"John!" 

Bolting upright, the man scrambled in his bed, kicking as reached out for his gun -a habit he'd thought he'd grown out of from the army. Sherlock's voice was shells shattering around him, bullets ripping through his tympanic membrane, ricocheting off his cerebal cortex, the screaming agony of the army filling his mind. The air was hot, and heavy, and thick in his sleep-addled mind was riddled with dust and blood and fires from the nightmares he'd thought he'd distinguished.

But it was fine. He was safe, it was only Sherlock. With a stretched, he pushed away the thoughts, ignored the echos of the pain that wrapped around him. He slid the covers off his legs, as Sherlock called out for him again. With a yawn, John pulled himself out of bed, shrugging on his dressing gown, although the fabric felt constricting, it felt too much like heavy flesh or muscle tightening around him. It felt too much like death. 

"Right." John groaned, as he shuffled into the living room, eyes still adjusting to the new light of the morning, "What do you want then?" He snapped, glancing at his watch. 

Sherlock was silent, but John could hear his breathing from where the detective stood in the kitchen. "You going to answer me, then?" John demanded, his voice firm, and clearly not returning to normal civilization. His mind was clad in that dappled green uniform, still clutching the limp, lifeless dream of saving lives. The only thing he did was risk his own. 

"I-" Sherock began, his voice quiet, small. The man was almost entirely closed in on himself: arms wrapped around his chest, hugging himself, looking down at his feet. "I broke--" He whispered, still not able to get the words out. 

John had never seen the man so broken, a shadow of his former soldiering self. He had none of that rigid self-assurance, none of that fresh-faced arrogance. "You broke what?" The man sighed, as he wandered closer.

The floor was glittered with the remains of what John presumed to be a china plate. The shards lay violent and threatening around Sherlock, who could only look down at them, a seemingly apologetic God, omnipotent and all-seeing. "I dropped it." Sherlock offered, in way of an explanation, finally looking up at John, face now slipping back to that mask of indifference. 

"I can see that." John sighed, as he tip-toed over the battlefield of broken china, "It's alright. Accidents happen." He soothed, patting Sherlock's arm, as he visualized the man, so pleased with himself after teh night before. So pleased with himself in general, loud, forceful, intelligent and bold. And all of that had gone, slipped away from him, shattered, leaving a broken mess, both within Sherlock, and surrounding him. John could only wonder what it was that left the man so distracted that he could have dropped the plate.

"I'll get this cleared up, Sherlock." John decided, as he looked up at the man. "You go and hop in the shower. You smell awful, and you could probably do with a freshen up." He suggested, "And maybe have some water? Seems like you had a big night last night." 

"It was nothing." Sherlock replied, voice a deep, flat drone. "I don't need you to baby me, John. Leave me alone."

And with that, the man was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ears are really complicated okay. If you know biology better than me, please feel free to correct the terminology I used!
> 
> ALSO when I said it was slow build, I wasn't joking.


	3. November 16h

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: (Not very detailed) Descriptions of a deceased minor character. Just in case that irks you. Also some language.

Little over an hour later, Sherlock's phone rang. The man paced around the room, his feet barely seeming to touch the floor. Of course, John could only watch, an outsider to whatever was causing Sherlock this distress. Sherlock rarely received calls. In the words of the man himself, he 'preferred to text', but obviously, some things were too complex or too serious to simply text ( _There's been a murder. XOXO_ hardly seemed appropriate, in John's eyes). 

The caller would either be Mycroft, with his bi-monthly "Sherlock, what have you done now" talk, or Lestrade, with another case for them, which was the more likely of the two explanations. John had silently been praying for a juicy abduction, a muddled murder, or a high-profile robbery to distract Sherlock, for the last couple of days. He knew it was because of _the event_ , but what was he to do about it? If Sherlock wanted to invite John to meet his parents, that was fine. They just needed to talk about under what label was this happening, which was proving to be impossible if Sherlock was going to continue with his silent protest against feelings. Other than their conversation that morning, Sherlock hadn't said a thing to him non-Christmas-related since the previous Monday. Before he heard that damn song on the radio, before the woman with the bad back, before everything. Everything bad happens on a Tuesday. 

"John, get your coat." Sherlock demanded, as he shoved his phone back into his pocket. His entire body seemed to elongate, a little. His shoulders straightened, his back stretched out, his head held that little bit more assuredly, as he strode over to get his own coat and scarf. "There's a case." 

John sighed. There was no way in hell he was going to come along to this one. They'd probably bicker, and snap at each other. No longer Team Sherlock-And-John, bu Sherlock and John, the flatmates who haven't spoken in days.Everyone would be looking at them. Everyone would ask questions. John wasn't in the mood for that, nor Sherlock's false confidence, when John knew the man was clearly lost in some inner turmoil. "Sherlock, look, I'm really tired, and.."

"John, Get your coat." He repeated, as he threw the jacket to John, who caught it, effortlessly, "You wont want to miss this one."

And in a flurry of his long, dark coat, blue scarf, and jet curls, the man was gone again. John, begrudgingly, got up to follow.

\-----

The taxi ride was horrendous. The driver (Martin, he'd told them) did not seem to stop talking for the entire journey, rattling on about his family, his wife, his dog. And of course, neither of them _actually_ really gave a shit. 

The only thing either of them were pretending thinking about was the case.

They were both really thinking about the distance between their feet, their knees, their hands.

Sherlock worked it out within two minutes: 1 inch, 3.5 inches, 0.5 inches. 

\-----

 

As it turned out, the murder of a young, British girl took place in the club that Sherlock had visited the night before.

"The body was found over here." Greg explained, as Sherlock stormed off, in the general direction of the bar. John watched as Sherlock climbed behind it, effortlessly elegant as always, and quickly began rummaging for something. John knew it was something about the case, but somewhere in the back of his mind, there was that doubt that Sherlock was looking for something more.. recreational. The way he'd been acting the last few days, he wouldn't be surprised.

"So, er..." John began, running his hand through his short hair, crouching down beside the pale, lifeless body. John could see would have been pretty: she was young, early 20s perhaps, with brown hair parted in the middle, and a sweet, round nose. "Anything about how she died?" John asked, avoiding the question both himself, and Lestrade wished to ask: Why had Sherlock been here last night?

"Nothing certain, yet. Looks like an overdose, though. Possibly drugs, or maybe poison. We're just waiting for the results, actually." Greg explained, as he looked down at the body. With a deep sigh, John stood up, as Greg moved closer, "Look, mate. Witnesses and CCTV er... well, Sherlock was here. When she...Yeah, I just.. are you alright? Is everything alright?"

John's mouth fell open, as if he wanted to reply. His eyes darted over to his best friend, who was now talking hurriedly with whom John presumed to be the barman, still in his uniform from the night before. "I don't even know, mate." John replied, with a shrug, as Sherlock abandoned the man, with a dismissive wave of his hand. John offered the detective a small, fake smile as he approached. 

"Everything alright, Sherlock?" John asked, as Greg folded his arms across his chest, his eyes locked on Sherlock.

"Oh, don't look at me like that: I'm not a murderer." Sherlock snapped, as he glanced down at the body, "Arrest the Doorman. He'll confess to everything, and more, I'm certain." 

And with that, he was gone, again. 

\-----

Some ten minutes later, John had finished scribbling down a few notes from the case, and talking to the usual faces ('Long time, no see, John!'-'How's things, mate?'-'You still dating that Sarah woman?'). With his little notebook safely tucked in the back pocket of his jeans, John wandered out of the club, stepping over abandoned bottles, and cigarette stubs. He wondered if Sherlock had drunk or smoked last night. And if so, _what_ did he smoke?

Sherlock was waiting, arms folded, leaning against the door of a cab. His cheekbones were dusted with the palest of pink blush, from the cold. 

"Do you wanna stop storming off, mate?" John called to the man, as he approached, the word having none of the amicable tone as when he'd used it with Greg. If anything, now it sounded argumentative. 

"Oh, leave it, Watson." Sherlock snapped, as he pulled open the door of the cab, and climbed in. With a huff, John walked around to get in the other side.

"Watson? _Watson_? Don't fucking call me that." He replied, harshly, as he pulled the seatbelt across his chest, glad for the restraint.

"I'll call you whatever I damn well please."

"Fuck off."

They rode the rest of the way home in silence, and by the time John had paid the cabbie, Sherlock had locked himself in his room.


	4. November 30th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Time rushed on. I got ill, and didn't write for ages, so I'm a bit behind on my schedule!

For a long time, nothing seemed to happen.

John returned to work, the next day, and left Sherlock to it. 

Sherlock would jump out of bed early each morning, not bothering with breakfast as he often did when he was on a case. He'd wrap himself in his dark, long coat, the arms of his scarf wrapping around him, protecting him: a force field against anything. Against food, drink, people, emotions, John. He was alone, again, a dark figure (head down, feet fast.) through the busy streets of London; both seen and unseen by the masses. Hidden in plain sight, withdrawn. This is how Sherlock Holmes-es live: They stalk through crowds, they feed on the lives of other. This is how they love, this is how they don't love. This is how they must live, to protect themselves. There must be cold, for fear of melting in the heat, the danger of attachment.

John didn't mind at first. Of course he didn't, it wasn't really any of his business. He'd wake each morning, at around 8AM, have a quick shower, shave. Cup of coffee (milky, 2 sugars) and watch the news, before heading off to work. He didn't know why, but he'd started walking to work. A soldier on his own, frozen to the bone, alone. Somehow, the cold air was a comfort. He liked the bitter nip of the winter air on his fingertips, the way the icy air swirled from his lips. It reminded him of the inevitability of summer: you have to endure the ice of winter, before it melts away for the heat of summer.

Sometimes it rained. John always had an umbrella. Sherlock didn't.

John made dinner one afternoon, when the surgery sent him home from work, when it was too quiet to justify him sitting there doing nothing. He made spaghetti, with meatballs and a homemade tomato sauce. John thought it was delicious, Sherlock took one bite, before he started trembling. "Are you all right?" John had asked, putting down his cutlery on the table. His movements slow, almost cautious, he looked up at Sherlock. They'd not spoken in five days. 

"Yes." Sherlock had answered. "No." He changed his mind. "Not hungry." 

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I made this especially, Sherlock..." He explained, his voice tentative. He didn't want to anger Sherlock, he didn't want another fight. He didn't want more silence. Some distant part of John's mind was proud to tell him that their friendship rested on this moment. It was make or break, and all over Spaghetti. Their friendship was a desolate wasteland, all their cases were dry, their mutual acceptance was turning to dust, there was no sweetness left, no spring to drink from. All their old memories, the tales of their unlikely partnership were buried beneath sanddunes.

"I'm going to bed." Sherlock decided.

"No."

"I can't do this, John!" He shouted, hands raising to tug in his hair, as if he could pull the thoughts out. His eyes were wide, the little blue orbs no longer had that brightness they usually did. His magic had gone, replaced only with a darkness John had never seen before. It almost resembled fear, "I can't--!"

"Talk to me." John replied, trying to keep his voice even, calm. 

"I don't want to." Sherlock replied, his words forming like little icicles in the air. 

There was silence for a moment, as Sherlock ran his hand through his hair. As John licked his lips. As the clock in the kitchen ticked, counting the one, two, three, four seconds were they could only stare at each other.

"Am I still going to meet your parents?" John asked, finally. 

"Yes."

And with that, John turned back to eat the rest of his meal, and Sherlock turned his back on John, storming off to his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear with me, I hope to get another chapter up today!


	5. December 2nd

_It's hot. It's constricting, restricting, twisting his lungs, as he fights for air. The dust tears through his lungs, dragging it's fingernails through his Trachea, his Bronchi. It's suffocating, but he's still alive, he's still breathing. He doesn't know how. Maybe it's a miracle. He's never experienced a miracle before._

_But that's not what's causing the most pain. It's slow, yes, but he can feel it building while rabbits hop around him, little white rabbits emerging from every possible location in his mind. Are they glowing? No, now they're stars. They're beautiful, they're inconceivably beautiful. He doesn't know what half of the stars are called: if he looked long enough maybe he could find Orion's belt, or the Big Dipper, or Polaris. But there was no time for that. The pain is building._

_It's in his stomach? No. Chest. Shoulder? Yes. Shoulder. It burns, and rips, and tears. It's eating at him, its' teeth are biting into to his shoulder blade, its' fangs burst through the other side. A massive dog, an enormous hound, growling, snarling, yellow eyes biting into him._

_He calls out, a silent scream. He looks up._

_A mass of curls, of dark, soft curls. They seem to shine, in a celestial burst of light. He's surely an angel, his eyes are stars, his lips glisten. His pale skin is not skin, nor marble, nor silk, but in fact magic, or feathers, or both. And his hands are long, and elegant. And holding a gun._

_Pain rips through his entire body, now, convulsing in pain. The universe is exploding around him: the stars are draining away, like paint dripping from the sky. Or is it rain? He can't tell. He looks from the angel, to his wound, red poppies bursting and growing from the spot, where blood should be swelling. They jump from his skin, flying through the air._

_Expect they're not flying, John is. He's falling. The air rushing past him, his hands reach out to grasp the angel, his voice somehow calling for his help, his hand. But he's falling._

_And he hits the cold, stone ground._

Bolting upright, John is freed from his world, the prison of his dream has gone. He's in his bed. He can feel the soft fabric of his duvet, the gentle spring of his mattress, the familiar lavender-and-cinnamon scent of his room fills his lungs with every panting breath. He is free. He is safe. Only the memory remains. 

His nightmares had often centered around his injury, before. That was nothing new. Waking up in cold sweats, clutching at his shoulder was nothing new. The angel, however, was new. The hound. The stars. All of it, no matter how horrific it was, was strangely beautiful, and perhaps some masochistic part of actually enjoyed the dream. 

Although he'd tried to fall asleep again, his mind could not settle. Every time his eyes slipped shut, his heartrate slowed, he'd jump awake again, feeling the bed fall from beneath him. He didn't want to fall, he didn't want to fall asleep. And so, he resolved to at least get up, and make himself useful. There was always something to do around Baker Street, whether it was tidying Sherlock's mess, or catch up on the blog, or read up on some notes he'd made. In recent days, he'd even been flicking through a book about Crime Scene Investigations, just to see if he could help Sherlock any more. 

Did Sherlock even want his help any more?

Shaking the thought from his sleep-addled mind, he wandered to the kitchen, and set to work making himself a cuppa. Leaning against the counter, he let his eyes fall shut as the kettle boiled. Exhaustion, there was no other word for it.

John didn't hear as Sherlock approached, his feet soft and silent against the floor as he walked up to John from behind. His hand was gentle, as he brought it up to press softly against John's back. The doctor leant into the touch. 

"Shh..." He hummed, pressing himself closer against John. "Shh, It's all right. You're asleep. You're just dreaming."

"I.. I had .. You killed me.." John whispered, already feeling his body go limp against Sherlock's. 

"I know, John." He replied. John couldn't see what he was doing, but he didn't need to: He could feel the gentle tickle of Sherlock's soft curls against his neck, his nose brushing over his skin. He was nuzzling into him. His lips ghosted over his shoulder, running them up from the nape of his neck, to his ear, and then back down again. "I'm sorry.. I'm so.. so sorry." He whispered. He guides his lips against the sweet, exposed skin. His breath was warm against the delicious nectar of John's flesh. His lips pressed forwards, a kiss for John.

John's eyes flashed open. "What are you--" Only the figure was gone. There was no more warmth against him. There was nothing. 

Turning, he looked around the kitchen. He was alone.


	6. December 7th

John never was sure about what happened that night. Having run his mind over it, over and over, until the images in his mind began to blend and blur over the line of _What-I-Remember_ and _What-I-Presume-Happened_. John had decided that it was the exhaustion, that after his frankly disturbing nightmare, his mind was too unsettled and disturbed to be reliable. Perhaps he'd fallen asleep, again, for the briefest of moments, against the kitchen counter. Or maybe it was just his imagination, fabricating and stitching together little thoughts, feelings, and ideas into the strange, if not entirely unwanted, daydream. 

Even so, if that was the case, the question that was surely begging for an answer was this: Why did John think about _that_?

Over the next few days, it was fair to say John was beginning to get into the 'Christmas spirit'. He'd begun to wear his silly little jumpers, to which Sherlock would grunt in disgust. He'd started to ignore the terrible Christmas songs in the radio, in a sort of reluctant acceptance of their catchiness, while not succumbing to it. He'd even managed to convince Sherlock to let him decorate the flat, again. There was tinsel everywhere. Not a ledge, shelf, bookcase, or hard surface was left un-tinsled, with little fairylights climbing up the walls, and casting a warm glow through the flat, once more. He'd even managed to find a little, fake Christmas tree. No bigger than his forearm, it sat on the desk, surrounded by papers and laptops, and books and experiments but at least the damn thing was well decorated. 

It was the Thursday, when Harry had texted. John was about to jump in the shower, when his phone beckoned him. 

**Thurs. 19:37PM :**  
 **Alright, Wankface. Spose we should meet up before Christmas, or something? -Harry xo**

Although he hated those little x's and o's, He tolerated the woman who sent them: His dear, darling, ever-so-precious sister, Harriet. Although he often detested her on the very moral principle that she was throwing her life away with all the alcohol, she was still his sister and he loved her dearly.

And so, their festive get together was arranged for two days time. 

*****

"Can I come?" Sherlock had asked, suddenly, after what had seemed like an eternity of silence. He did not even drag his eyes away from his microscope to look up at John. Had John not already been looking at the man, he might not have even been able to guess it was Sherlock who spoke.

"Err..." John hummed, pretending to think for a moment. When in the mood, John often found himself bloody hilarious. Tonight was one of those such moods. "Yeaaah, No, mate. No." He smirked, as he pulled on his brown, leather brogues. His steady, strong fingers tied the laces effortlessly.

"Why not?" Sherlock had replied, almost immediately. Rapidfire. Gunshot. Bullet words.

"Because you don't actually like my sister? Because it'll involve 'chit-chat', and you hate chit-chat?" He reason, as he stood up, rushing off to get his coat, "The reasons really are endless, Sherlock."

John wasn't entirely sure when things had gone back to 'normal', whatever _normal_ was with them two, but at some point since the start of the month, Sherlock had either got bored of being stroppy, or given up being angry and decided to forgive John for whatever it was he'd done, or said, or not said. Glad of no longer having to think of exactly what he could have done to piss off the ever-sensitive Sherlock, John welcomed this change. Only, he resolved he really should bring it up at some point, just to make sure he didn't upset the man again with whatever it was he'd done. 

"I could try."

"But you wont, though, will you?" John pulled on his thick, parka jacket, dragging the zip up slowly. The sound echoed around the room, the silence that followed his question only served to make the noise piercingly loud. 

"No." Sherlock said, simply.

"Well, there you go, then. See you later, Sherlock. There's food in the fridge, if you need it." He smiled. It went unnoticed. "Which you wont." 

*****

The pub Harry and John had arranged to meet in was one of those small, on-a-corner places that liked to serve all those hearty classics, like bangers and mash, or pie and chips, and a good pint. John, of course, was early (can you still consider yourself early, if your companion is actually half an hour late?) and only knew of this because he'd had time to study every menu - Kid's eat for £5. He also could recite, rather proudly, their weekly schedule. Mondays was 2-for-1 on their limited menu, and Tuesdays was Curry night. Thursdays boasted a quiznight, with another go on the Sunday. Friday was "Happy day", their desperate pun on 'happy hour', while Saturdays was Karaoke night. From what John could gather, they were having some sort of an 'X-Factor' style thing. God pity the souls who have to endure _that_ , he thought with a smirk.

The place wasn't entirely bad, he had to admit. It was much like any old place he would go to with his friends: the jukebox in the corner flicked through assorted pop-classics, and seasonal favorites - The Power of Love, Frankie Goes to Hollywood was playing now - while the familiar sound of muffled laughter and general merriment filled the dimly-lit room. The stench of alcohol, and faint taste of cigarettes was strangely comforting, although it did make him question what good it was inviting Harry here. Would she be okay?

"Oi, Wankface!" Beamed the woman, some ten minutes later, as she burst into the room, arms flown wide to demand a hug. "Get over here!" She grinned, the mess of auburn hair slightly messy, and cut in a different style since John last saw her.

John carefully rose to his feet, still nursing his pint in one hand, as he embraced his sister. "Hi, Harry." He smiled, "You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, not too bad, can't complain, can I?" She replied, hurriedly, as she tugged off her coat -an almost alarming shade of red, John noted, as he helped her. "What about you, then? No, I don't need to ask. Happy as Larry, aren't you? I read all your cases. It's hilarious." She rambled, as John took another sip from his beer. "You.. You _are_ , aren't you, cause I really was not prepared for you having a breakdown on me." She winked.

"I'm fine." John replied, simply, putting his beer onto the table of the booth they were sat in. Leather seats warn away, crude little drawing scratched into the table, sticky and varnished some time ago. 

"Sherlock?" Harry suggested, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.

"Yeah." John sighed, running his hand over his hair, "He's being really funny with me. I mean, he's alright this week, but we had a few fights, and he's been snappy with me, and barely speaking to me." John explained, with a sad little smile.

"Well, you know what _I_ think." Harry smirked, as she gestured with her hand for John to wait while she ran off to get herself a drink. Of course John knew what Harry thought. It was much the same as what every bored idiot thought about the two of them. 

"Course I bloody know what you think, and you're wrong." John sighed, giving Harry his best 'I-Know-Best' face, when she returned with a Rum and Coke. "Be careful, alright?" John warned, quietly. 

"I know what I'm doing." She smiled, directing the little grin at those around her, although John strongly doubted she actually knew any of them. "All I'm saying is that one day somethings going to snap." She explained, leaning closer over the table, "I don't know when, but soon. Sounds like the man is either itching to leap you, or he's suddenly decided he hates you, and I know which I think sounds more likely."

"Fuck off." John chuckled, "I guess I'll be staying with you again, then, when he finally decides he's bored of me." He rolled his eyes, although somewhere in the back of his mind he knew she was right. Could Sherlock be bored of him? It would explain the little arguments, and all the not talking. But.. What about that night?

"Just.. make sure you use protection." Harry grinned, leaning back in her seat. 

"Fuck off!" John laughed, a bubbling little chortle as he had another sip of his beer, although he was unable to hide the way his cheeks warmed in a blush, "You know it's not like that."

Harry only watched John, eyes gleaming cheekily, "Oh, whatever. Now - Where's my prezzie?"

*****

When John stumbled into the flat, some hours and many beers later, with the child's magnifying glass and new Shirt Harry had brought for him tucked under his arm, Sherlock was still sat at the microscope. "Have you even moved?" John asked, slowly, as he toed of his shoes, leaving them trailing across the floor. 

Sherlock didn't reply.

"Silent treatment 'gain, eh?" John sighed, placing one hand on his hip, hoping to look stern, but only succeeding in looking like a stroppy toddler. "Well, fine. Fine! 'Cause you know what, Harry... Harry said--" Forgetting his train of thought, John fumbled for the brightly coloured toy "Here! Harry said we could share this." He giggled, thrusting the toy at Sherlock. The detective did not respond. John prodded him with the plastic handle. "Loooook, Look at it, Sherlock."

"Go away." 

"Oh!" John grinned, "Oh, he speaks!" He chuckled, throwing his hand over his mouth in mock astonishment, "Quick-Quick, tell me all you know before you ignore me again!"

"I know a lot that I will not tell you." Sherlock finally looked up at John, face impassive as ever. 

"Sneaky.. You're so.." John pointed his finger in Sherlock's vague direction, "You always gots to be so.. sneaky and mysterious."

"I know you think you were asleep, the other night. In the kitchen" Sherlock replied, simply. He blinked once, before he turned back to his experiment. 

"Was I?"John asked, quietly, remembering back to that night, the way Sherlock had felt against him. Nice and warm. Absolutely lovely. 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. He thought. John could practically see his mind flick through a dozen thoughts. "Yes." Sherlock replied, simply. "Go to bed."

John frowned, before sighing, "Fine." And turning to drag himself upstairs, "Night night, Sherly. Lockie. Lovely Sherlocky." 

And with that, when John was finally out of the room, Sherlock slumped into his chair, rubbing his hands over his face, through his hair, as if it could rub away the lies, the pretending. Oh, god, what had he done?


	7. December 14th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Er.. Sorry.

The next Saturday saw the first flurry of snow. 

Sherlock was practically bursting with excitement, when he saw it out of the window at approximately 3 am. He had watched it fall, watched it settle, and over the next hour or so, watched it melt away. 

*****

"I've got a date tonight, Sherlock." John declared in the early hours of the evening, after a day of mundane tasks such as tidying up after Sherlock, looking after Sherlock, making food for Sherlock, getting things from the other side of the room for Sherlock, getting things from right beside Sherlock, for Sherlock... 

"What? No you don't." Sherlock decided, despite clearly knowing nothing about John's plans. It was Harry's fault, really. As it turns out, that night last week, when the two had gone out together, John was a lot more wasted that she was. And apparently, when drunk, John likes to ramble on - _to his sister, no less_ about how he hasn't had a girlfriend (a real one, he clarified. Going on one date doesn't count.) since the summer, and he hadn't had sex in months. Well, that was how Harry had put it, in the less than sympathetic text he'd received the next morning. 

By the Monday, it was all planned. Harry evidently knew this lovely girl named Susie. She worked in retail, apparently, but was one of Harry's best friends. They would been at 8 O'clock, the next Saturday, to go out for dinner. No excuses, or Harry'll hurt John.

"I do, _actually_." John mumbled, absentmindedly, as he adjust himself in the mirror, ruffling his hair a little, before deciding he liked it better how it was before. "Harry set us up..." He continued, as he checked whether his shirt looked better tucked in or tucked out.

"Sounds dull." Sherlock was watching this process now, a look of faint bemusement. "You look different." He decided, after a moment.

John froze, "Good different, or 'oh-my-God, what have you done?' different?" He asked, turning back to his reflection to frantically try and to pull himself into some kind of respectable form.

"No, No, no. You look.. smart. Nice. You look good." Sherlock decided, as he prodded at a dead.. well, whatever it was. "Will you be coming home tonight?"

"Don't know, mate. Food in the fridge, though." John smiled, two which Sherlock only grunted. "I'll see you later then?" He smiled, as he pulled on his coat. 

"Have fun."

*****

As it turned out, Susie was beautiful. She was stunning, with these big, bright blue eyes that shone like.. well.. little Christmas lights. Her hair fell in lose, dark curls around her sweet, round face. She was slim, with the most beautiful of wrists. John found it strange how he noticed them, but her hands were elegant and thin and he touch on her glass, cutlery, John's own thigh, was gentle and delicate. Her figure was curvaceous, but not in a way where John felt remotely intimidated. She was like a sweet, slim, smooth cat, in her perfectly fitting black dress, which fit perfectly against her pale skin. 

Not that John had been ogling her. Susie had a lot to say: about everything, John had noticed. When John asked her about work, she began talking about her ambitions, and her dreams, and her daily motto for getting out of bed in the morning: If Mandela could wake up, then so could she. She was a massive Beatles fan ( _'I know! Revolver is without a doubt the best album, don't you think?_ ) and learnt the flute as a child. She didn't play now. 

They had talked all the way through their dinner. For a starter, Susie ordered a salad, which initial concerned John, as he hated it when women went hungry on dates, purely to impress. It worried him: he didn't ever want a woman to feel like that around him. But for her main course, a beautiful cooked Medium-Rare steak was her choice. They talked about John, for a while, and about Sherlock for even longer. Susie had been following the cases, it seemed, and found them fascinating, if not a little frightening. "You're like a real-life knight in shining armor, aren't you?" She'd laughed.

Which was when John, stupidly, said this:

"Do you want to meet Sherlock?"

*****

Which was how they ended up here, back at the flat, with John sat on the sofa, Susie cuddled into him in all possible ways - hands attached, arms linked, legs intertwined - and Sherlock sat in his arm chair, watching with a serious, frowning expression.

"So, _the_ Sherlock Holmes, eh?" She smiled, sweetly, giving John's hand a quick squeeze, "So tell me- any juicy secrets about John?"

"Oh, I really shouldn't."

"No, you shouldn't, Sherlock."

"But I insist." That smile, those sweet lips, that beautiful, kissable mouth, with her full lips, all rosy pink and moist and perfectly... kissable...

"She insists, John." Sherlock smirked, his own lips mirroring Susie's smile.

"Don't."

"Perhaps another time?" Sherlock suggested, eyes flicking between the two, torn between wanting to please John, and whatever answering Susie would cause. The silence that followed Sherlock's reply was awful, in which John didn't know who to look at, who's eyes sparkled brighter in this light, who's hair was softer, who's lips were bigger, softer, more obscenely fleshy and kissable. 

"Maybe we should upstairs? Leave Sherlock in peace." There you go, Watson, got there in the end.

Susie leant over to kiss John's cheek, "All right, then." 

The scramble up the stairs was quick, and left John's heart pounding- although he was sure Sherlock's reckless messing around was something to do with that. With a smile, John pulled Susie in for a kiss, the moment they reached the top, his hand snaking around her tiny waist, fingers curling around her hip, as he carefully leant forwards to press his lips against those heavenly, beautiful lips. Kissing her was a dream. Tasting her mouth, feeling it against his own was amazing. And God, that tongue left nothing to the imagination.

Stumbling into John's room, her hands were tugging at John's shirt, her once-gentle hands now desperate as she pulled at the buttons. "Hey, hey, shh.. Come here." He soothed, as he guided her hands, helping her open his shirt. She smiled her thanks, before she leant forwards again, not to kiss John's lips this time, but to press them against John's shoulder. His chest. His scar. "Oh, god, baby.." Was the doctor could manage to say.

After a moment, Susie stood straight again, before slowly, tortuously slowly, turning his back to John. "Unzip me." Jesus. That voice. She was surely some kind of angel. His hands were shaking slightly, as he carefully dragged the zipper down her back. The black satin material of her dress parted, inch by inch, to reveal that beautiful, soft marble skin. He kiss each part of her flesh, as it was revealed to him. "You're beautiful.." He breathed, as he carefully slid the dress off her body, fingers trailing against her warm skin as he did so.

She stepped out of the dress.

Susie turned to face John, her perfect breasts cupped within a simple, dark bra. "On the bed, John." She asked, as John's eyes took in her beautiful form. Her body hips, and soft stomach, and her edible-looking thighs. John could only obey. "I want to taste you. Please. Let me suck you." 

Who was John to say no? It was no time at all until Susie's careful fingers pulled away John's underwear, and took his cock into her hand. Her mouth was upon him in a matter of moments. John struggled to sit up, a little, watching as those perfect, full, fuckable lips wrapped around him, all pink and soft. It felt almost wrong, to let somebody so beautiful do this to him, but she was good. Very good. And god, for a moment, with her with him that night, he could almost imagine a little life together. He could imagine the dates they would go on, or even a surprise visit to her workplace, for an impromptu picnic lunch. 

She sucked, licked, swirled her tongue expertly. John had wondered how many guys she'd done this for, and if John was even remotely special, but the way her lips kissed the tip just like that, the way her tongue flicked along the slit, oh, he couldn't care less at that moment. It was about them, then, there, their pleasure in that moment. Nothing else. She carefully licked her way down his length, while her hand cupped and gently played with his balls. "Oh, ssshiiit that's good... God, you're beautiful.." He moaned, as she took him into her mouth again.

Soon, the pressure was building, as he tongue swirled slightly, thick, and hot, and wet against his sensitive member. He knew we was close. Hollowing her cheeks, Susie sucked harder, bobbing her head in a faster rhythm, until the pleasure built: it was her hand on his thigh, the brightness of her eyes, the wet, filthy sounds coming from her mouth. It all caused that delicious, tight tugging feeling in his abdomen, "Baby, I need too..." He started, only for her to go faster, those dark curls bouncing around her face, falling infront of her eyes. "Oh, fuck.. come on, baby.. Oh god. that's it.. " Hair. He needed to touch it. Touch the soft, raven hair, touch the silk, ivory skin, see her bright, blue eyes. Or where they green? Or maybe even grey. "Oh, god, fuck.. yes.. that's it.. that's.."

More. More. More. 

It was all heat, all tension, all building as his cock throbbed, ached. His balls tightened up.

Fuck. 

His hands fisted into her hair, tugging. Pulling. He was coming. Oh, God. Coming.

"Sherlock!" He called out, before it was too late to even stop himself.


	8. December 16th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one, I'm afraid...

**Mon. 11:13AM :**  
 **LOL ;) -Harry xoxo**

 

_**Sent: Mon. 11:17AM :**_  
 ** _Fuck off.. -JW_**

 

Sherlock, thankfully enough for John, hadn't heard a thing last night. John had asked him - rather discretely, or so he thought - if they'd disturbed him that night, to which he grunted and rambled on about how very little he cared about John's sex life. Harry, however, wasn't quite so forgiving. She'd been sending texts all day, asking for details, or just with one simple word. One name.

It goes without saying that Susie quickly finished up with John, and quickly explained to him -rather civilized, he'd thought, all things considering - why dating women while you're clearly infatuated with your best mate isn't a good idea. Beautiful, and graceful as ever, She'd pulled her dress back on with relative ease, and told John that he should call her once he was over his little crush. John resolved to text her that Monday, but couldn't quite bring himself to. 

**Mon. 15:47PM :**  
 **I liked Susie. You can keep her. -SH**

**_Sent: Mon. 15:58PM :_**  
 ** _Nope. Sorry. Not her. -JW_**

**Mon. 15:04PM :**  
 **Plenty more fish and all that. -SH**

**_Sent: 15:26PM :_**  
 ** _I know. :) -JW_**


	9. December 18th

"Did you get the shirt?" Sherlock asked, quite randomly, one Wednesday afternoon, as John flicked through the day's newspaper. Sherlock was busy mixing some (quite possibly poisonous?) liquid. 

"Excuse me?" John asked, carefully folding the newspaper over his knee. 

"The shirt, John, I asked you to get a white shirt." Sherlock snapped, as he carefully swirled the chemicals he was playing with. "Did you get one?"

"Um. Yes, I did. I have a white shirt, yes." John replied, frowning over his shoulder to Sherlock in the kitchen. 

"Good." Sherlock hummed, eyes locked on a test tube, as he squeezed a drop of something blue from a pipette into his mixture. It hissed and fizzed for a moment, before Sherlock spoke again. "I got you a suit."

"You what?" 

If there was one thing John could deduce, it was Sherlock's social class. He could picture generations of Holmes men, tracing back through the decades, all impeccably dressed, with their vampiric-pale skin and dark hair. They'd probably made their fortunes through investment, or some ancestor who'd hit lucky at something-or-other. Of course, John knew Sherlock had money. The way he dressed, his impeccable style was proof enough, even if he hadn't met Mycroft, Mr. Money himself. He knew Sherlock had enough to get by- more than enough, really. It made their flat-share rather illogical, in John's mind. If he had money to waste on Prada socks, why was he concerned about flat-sharing? But this? A suit? That was too much.

"I got you a suit, John. Sized you up the moment I saw you. I'm certain it will fit you perfectly." Sherlock smirked, as he used his delicate fingers to tidy up the rest of his experiment. He tidy up the bottles and jars of questionable substances, leaving only the test tube in the holder on the table. 

"Why did you do that?" John finally managed to ask, pushing himself to his feet. John hadn't even confirmed whether he was going or not, he realised, and here Sherlock was buying him a suit. Bit odd.

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes, "Well, obviously, it's because your suits are awful." He replied, before clocking John's reaction "...Sorry." 

John shook his head in exasperation, as he wandered over to the fridge. Opening it, he looked inside, scanned through the contents, before deciding he wasn't hungry. Seeing a bag of fingers often does that to you.

"Is this about impressing your parents?" John asked after a moment, as he leant against the counter, watching Sherlock carefully. Sherlock only nodded in reply. "Because I don't mind paying you back. I mean, if it means that much to you, I mean, I want to help--"

"Oh, just forget it, John!" Sherlock snapped, kicking one of the chairs back under the table. "It doesn't matter, anyway."

"Yes, it does." John protest, needing to remain calm. For both of them. It was only a couple more days until they went away, and John couldn't deal with them fighting again - not for his own sake, for Sherlock's sake, but because he didn't want to lose Sherlock over Christmas, while he was with his family. Sherlock could sulk all he wished, but John had no idea how he would survive this without the man. How could he survive anything without Sherlock?

Sherlock sighed, his body visibly relaxing a little, "I want them to like you." He admitted, letting his fingers trail over the surface of the table. 

"Do you think they will?" 

"I like you." 

John smiled. "Thanks." He chuckled, softly, "I like you, too."

Sherlock pressed his lips together slightly, as he quickly began to tidy things - although it looked an awful lot to John like shuffling things about simply to fill the silence. 

"I should go and pack. Not long now. We getting the train there?" John said, after a moment.

Sherlock grunted his reply. John took that as a yes. "I'll book us some tickets on my laptop, later."

"Thank you John." Sherlock replied. John froze, looking up at the man. That was... kind. "I appreciate that you are doing this for me."

"With you." John corrected, "I'm not doing this for you - I want to meet them, t oo. I want to do this." 

"Thank you." 

John was left with this stupid, enormous grin on his lips, as he wandered off upstairs to go and pack. Sherlock couldn't help but smile, either, quickly abandoning his experiment in favor of playing his violin - it was a piece he'd composed himself when the two had fought. It was called 'Please, my John'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, comments are appreciated! I don't like this chapter, but I wanted one more entry before they go away, together. Sorry!


	10. December 21st

Sherlock didn't do trains. He hated them, hated the way they smelt, and the way you never know who you will sit beside until it is too late. John realised this approximately 30 minutes into the 3 and a half hour train journey when Sherlock had asked (for the first time) if they were nearly there. Ever the child, John also had to bring snacks for the journey, and had even thrown a Rubix Cube into his bag, just to make sure he could keep Sherlock entertained.

"I didn't think it would be this boring." Sherlock hissed at John a little while later, eyes locked on the man who sat in the seat opposite him. Phone in his hand, John only listened to Sherlock as he moaned. John knew better than to spark the man's irritation by reply. "Why did we get the train? Why not just... drive or.. or fly." He sulked.

"Oh, shush, now. Trains are fun." John tried to convince him. "Look out the window, or something. Deduce something, I don't know." John sighed, exasperation clear on his face. He was exhausted. He'd been up all night, trying to help Sherlock pack. If he hadn't have intervened, Sherlock would have completely forgotten underwear, and been left with only two shirts for their 13 day trip. What would Sherlock do without John, eh? 

"But trains are boring." Sherlock sulked, as he slumped into his chair. If John had asked himself, all those years ago before Sherlock, what he thought he'd be doing during the Holiday season this year, there was no way in hell he'd imagine himself babying his flatmate, as they went to go meet his family. Sherlock really did come out of nowhere, but now he was everywhere. And John kind of liked at, and as long as Sherlock remained beside him, he decided he wouldn't question it. If they were both happy, what did it matter? 

"I know." John hummed, as he watched the city rush by around them. They'd caught the 8:30 train from St Pancras, towards the Holmes family Home ('It's actually a Manor, John.') in Devon. It was almost an hour later, after the grey, familiar, water-colour scenery of the city washed away, to gritty suburbs, and finally into more open countryside. John had lived his entire life in cities, and so the peaceful landscape they now rushed through was a great comfort.

He didn't know when exactly it had happened, but just after they passed through Westbury station, John became away of Sherlock's soft breathing, in that gentle tone that indicated the man was asleep. He was aware of how Sherlock leant into him, his head resting on John's shoulder, his hands in little fists, one pressed against the outside of John's thigh. As they exited the station, John decided if there was ever any doubt as to why he was going to meet Sherlock's parents, they were calmed by the gentle breathing of Sherlock, the soft hair tickling onto his shoulder, the warm, comforting weight of Sherlock against him. That was why he was doing this: because nothing made John happier than seeing Sherlock happy. 

*****

They got a taxi from the station to Sherlock's parent's house. It was about a ten minute drive, not that either of them minded. It was all worth it when they approached the building. A large, metal gate welcomed them from the main road, which Sherlock had to hop out to press a button to open. John was already in awe. A long, gravel road crunched and crackled beneath the wheels of the taxi, bumping slightly, as John looked out of the window in wonder. Great, grassy expanses reached for as far as he could see. A way away, there was a fence of trees, which John presumed marked the end of the 'Holmes Territory'. Looking up towards the manor, John could see a large fountain. It wasn't on, now, probably due to the fear of the water freezing overnight, but John could imagine it's beauty. There were flowers, seasonal of course, to keep the place looking pretty, and robust shrubs and bushed kept in perfect shape - probably by a vast team of gardeners. The whole landscape bloomed bright green wealth and pride.

"This place.. You.. you grew up here?" John asked, incredulously, tearing his eyes away from this idyllic location, in favor of the equally idyllic Sherlock. "This is crazy, it's like bloody.. Downton Abbey or something!" He grinned, as Sherlock tried is very hardest not to feel smug. 

"It's none of my doing- My parents are rich, not me." He explained, with a shrug, as he smiled back at John. 

"What's it like inside?" John asked, to which Sherlock only replied, "You'll see." 

After paying the cabbie, Sherlock helped John carried their bags to the door, where a slim, older woman, with grey hair was waiting to meet them, with Mycroft on her arm. 

"Oh, Sherlock, look at you!" The woman beamed, holding her arm out for him. With a grunt in John's direction, he quickly put on his best I'm-really-happy-to-do-this face, and carefully embraced the woman.

"Mycroft." John nodded his greeting to the man, who in turn bowed his head. "Good journey?" He asked, as John dragged Sherlock's and his own bag closer to the door. 

"Not too bad, yeah. Sherlock got bored, thought." He explained, with a small chuckled. Mycroft remained unimpressed at his joke. John bit his lip, as he looked up at Sherlock, who was talking hurriedly and quietly with the woman. John cleared his throat. 

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock beamed, clapping his hands together once, making the woman jump a little. "This is John, Doctor John Watson. John - This is my mother." 

John quickly rushed forwards, to shake the woman's hand. John had expected her to be frail, unassuming, vulnerable maybe, but the woman herself was tall, slim, and had the grip of a bear, or a tiger. Her eyes were sharp, and blue - just like Sherlock's - but she had a more rounded face, pale and soft like Mycroft's. "John, darling, It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I've heard all about you, from the boys!" She beamed, opening her arms again, as if to ask John for a hug.

He knew he had to be respectful, and please the woman, and so he hugged her, carefully. In the embrace, however, Sherlock's mother seemed to drop whatever sweetness she had, the bear inside her taking over. It was no longer a hug, but a trap, her claws gripping at the man's shoulders. "If you ever _dare_ hurt my Sherlock, I will not hesitate to kill you." She smiled, releasing John to look at him a little. With a chuckle, she petted his cheek, "Come on in then, boys." She smiled, the kind little act slipping back on, effortlessly.

Inside the manor, everything was this deep, rich shade of red. The floor was a deep, varnished wood that John didn't know the name of, but was certain Sherlock did. The walls were lined with paintings and photographs, some obviously old, yet some contained a sulking, toddling Sherlock, and thus couldn't be too old. Sherlock's mother, Who he now knew was called Vera, gave John a quick tour, and introduce him to a few of the other Holmes' who were staying in the house. Sherlock had countless aunts and uncles and cousins, all of who were architects, or investors, or businessmen, or bankers, or politicians. Talk about high achieving family! There was no chance that John would be able to remember all of their names.

"And here, John, is where you will be sleeping. Unless you'll be wanting--" Vera flashed a look to Sherlock, who as ever remained impassive and distanced from all of the rumors and comments. 

"Here's good, thank you so much." John quickly interjected, with a large, fake smile. "Thank you so much for letting me stay, though, Mrs Holmes. It means a lot to me." 

"John, please, call me Vera." She smiled back, patting Sherlock's arm, "Sherlock'll be just down the hall. Second door on the right." She smiled, her lips a tight, little smirk. God, she looked so like Sherlock, sometimes, it was unsettling.

With a smile at Sherlock, Vera disappeared off to her guests, leaving Sherlock and John alone on the endless corridor on which their rooms were. "I'm sorry that she said um.." Sherlock mumbled.

"Hey, it's nothing." John beamed, trying to hide the blush that was now dusted on his cheeks. "Besides: People always talk. It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it?"

"I don't think so...?" John replied, watching Sherlock for a moment. God, how could such a brilliant man exist? Here, in this home, it was like seeing Sherlock being released back into the wild, back into his natural habitat, but it was still _his_ Sherlock. Sherlock was simultaneously rejecting and embracing his surroundings. It was a fascinating thing to see. 

"I'm going to want to see your room, you know. From when you were a kid." John grinned, to which Sherlock only replied with a smirk, before reaching for John's hand and leading him the short distance down the hallway to his room. 

On the door, there was a little sign. It was obviously handmade, decorated in vibrant blues and red, depicting a space scene, his name spelled out across a rocket. John watched with a smile, as Sherlock's hand ghosted over it, before he pushed open the door. Inside, the walls were painted a pale blue. His bed was a large, double bed, which John presumed he'd gotten when he was a little older. There was a chest of drawers in one corner, and a wardrobe in the other. The door of the wardrobe was filled with light-damaged pieces of paper, with scribbled words, equations, and drawings of rockets, astronauts, stars, planets, and more aliens than John could comprehend. The window cast a beam of light onto the bed, which had deep blue sheets on, and a small, raggedy teddy sat at the top near the pillows. On the ceiling, there was countless of those little lucid green stars and generic planets that glowed in the dark.

"I thought you hated space and astrology and all that..?" John hummed, after a moment, as his eyes flicked about the place. There were books, too, hundreds of them, no doubt. Only a handful were fiction, but of those that were, they were Science-Fiction novels. 

"I do." Sherlock hummed, as he moved to sit on the edge of his bed. "I used to adore it, however. I wanted to be an astronaut, or build spaceships." 

John smiled, "What changed your mind?" He asked, absentmindedly, as he wandered over to look closer at all the pictures pinned to Sherlock's wardrobe. It was as if time had frozen in Sherlock's room- he could picture a younger Sherlock, with rounded cheeks, and chubby little fingers scribbling a picture of Saturn, and getting his older brother to pin it onto the wood, as he could no longer reach the free spaces. 

Sherlock decided not to answer that question. 

"I really need to thank you for this, Sherlock. Inviting me, and showing me all this. It means a lot to me." John smiled, after what felt like an eternity of silence, although it was probably not more than a few minutes. 

"Don't, John. I don't do sentiment. Come on, I wont now how to reply." Sherlock mumbled, his hand reaching for his teddy, hoping JOhn hadn't seen the movement. John did, he just chose not to mention it.

"You do know how to reply, you just don't want to." John chuckled, before he inhaled deeply, and turned the door, "I'm going to go get unpacked. Is that okay?"

"Of course it is." 

John smiled one last time at Sherlock, and made for the exit. Sherlock's voice stopped him.

"I'll come see you again in a bit, then?"

"Whenever you want." John replied, smiling. God, he didn't want to leave. If the two could stay in Sherlock's room, in that little bubble of time, surely they would both be happy for a very, very long time. Maybe even eternity, if eternity can exist in a world where all time has frozen. The two could remain forever in that moment, timeless, eternal, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure of this chapter. Sorry!


	11. December 22nd

The next day, Sherlock's mother began preparations for what could only be considered as a feast. There was enough vegetables to feed an army- it would go down as the best roast in history, he was sure. He dare not think about what kind of miracle the woman would pull off at Christmas. John helped a little, peeling potatoes, chopping up carrots, and generally rushing around doing whatever Holmes-Uncle-Number-Six told him to do, while Holmes-Cousin-Two moaned that he was doing it wrong.

They all sat down to dinner at about 7pm, and John was suddenly aware of why Sherlock had insisted so fervently on John bringing a white shirt. He could feel every pair of eyes in the room watch him, sat there, in his cosy, cream jumper, and jeans. Sherlock who was sat beside him, looked sharp as usual in his dark trousers, and that purple shirt that clung to him so perfectly. Sherlock was usually the one to stand out, in his finery. It was John who was now incongruous with his surroundings.

"Stop worrying about it- You look lovely." Sherlock whispered to him, as Vera welcomed her guests. Nobody noticed the two friends talking under their breaths at eachother. 

Blushing, John could only manage a quick 'thank you', before Sherlock rambled on, in hushed tones"I mean, well, not lovely, but... um.. you know what I mean." 

"You look good, too." John smiled, "But you always do." He breathed, not daring to look at Sherlock.

"Thank you."

The meal was, in short, incredible. What was provided for in terms of quantity was met, and more, with the quality. They were probably some of the best roast potatoes John had even had - even if he did say so, himself - and judging but the gentle hum of happiness hovering about the table, John wasn't alone in this thinking.

"So, tell us John," Asked Holmes-Uncle-Number-Three, the architect, with a little smirk as he stabbed at a parsnip, "Are you and Sherlock.. you know? Dating?" 

There was a moment in which every guest at the table froze, eyes locking on John. Everyone blinked up at him, John's cheek's flushed, as Sherlock only looked down at his plate. 

Mycroft, from across the table, chuckled quietly, "Oh, yes, Uncle. The two moved in together within a week of meeting, and work together, now, too." He teased, eyes glistening as he watched John fidget in his seat. 

"Oh, really?" Beamed the woman beside Mycroft, "That is so wonderful! It's about time Sherlock found somebody to settle down with.." She mused, which erupted a fresh rumble of discussion along the table. Everybody seemed fascinated by this, except John, who watched at this fresh lie bubble and bloom before his eyes. Sherlock, however, sat silent, solemnly pushing a pea around his plate.

"So, how long has it been?"

"Have you said 'I love you', yet?"

"I just knew it, when I saw you two, together. "

"It's obvious you make him _so_ happy!"

Sherlock was boiling over, John could see it. His hands were trembling now, having given up his act of indifference, in favor for the stress, the obvious affect of the conversation now taking over. "I'm so, so sorry." John whispered to him, placing a gentle hand on Sherlock's thigh, which only served to make Sherlock tense up even further. 

"Enough!" He shouted, causing every gossip to cease their tale, every question to stop in it's intrusive path. "There is nothing going on between John and I, and even if there was, we certainly would not like to be interrogated over dinner!" 

John looked down. 

Sherlock sighed, using one hand to continue eating his meal, and the other to reach for John's, under the table. John took it, willingly.


	12. December 23rd

The next day, the Holmes' family mostly stuck to their own business. Sherlock spent hours reading, and John spent hours pretending not to watch.

John had explored much of the rest of the house, poking his head into room, finding a grand total of 4 bathrooms, 3 living spaces, and countless bedrooms - but he didn't look in those, not wanting to intrude into the Holmes Family's lives. He'd looked at all the paintings and photographs on the walls, taking particular care to inspect the ones of Sherlock. There were images of Sherlock up trees, tumbling over Mycroft as they play-fought, holding up trophies. Mummy Holmes was clearly very, very proud of Sherlock. Yet, riddled within those perfect-child images were little signs of where things had gone wrong- Sherlock sulking at birthdays, or crowded by people, crying in the background of the countless pictures of the older, more sophisticated Mycroft. He could see the transformation of bright, young Sherlock into a bitter, angry, second-best child. His hair grew longer, in each of the pictures, hiding his face, hiding himself away. John could practically trace, along the walls and corridors of images, as Sherlock withdrew into himself. Of when he became the Sherlock he is today, still walking around calling himself a Sociopath, when all he really needed was-was...

Was what? A friend? Love? John?

That night, when Sherlock had brought him a whisky as he dozed in the library, with a detective novel by some long-forgotten Victorian author, their fingers had brushed just so perfectly that for a moment, John thought that he could be all three for Sherlock. He could be what the great detective needed. Sherlock settled on the floor, cross legged at John's feet. After an hour or so, Sherlock leant onto the man, resting his head in John's lap. John let his hand fall down to stroke through Sherlock's soft curls. They sat in silence for the rest of the night, until John fell asleep. When he awoke, at little past 4am, Sherlock was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one, but that's all I have to say. Hope you're not disappointed!


	13. December 24th

At 11:30AM on Christmas Eve, when John wandered over to Sherlock's room, wrapped in his dressing gown, feet pushed into his favorite slippers. With a deep breath, and approximately two minutes of hesitation, John knocked on the door.

"Finally, I was beginning to wonder what you were doing loitering outside my room." Sherlock's voice called from behind the door. John could practically hear the smirk in Sherlock's voice. 

John's hand reached up, tracing over the letters on the little door sign, "I was wondering if--"

"No." Sherlock's voice boomed, followed by a chuckle, "I'm wrapping your gift. No, you cannot come in."

"Oh." John grinned, as he leant against the doorframe, "I wasn't actually expecting you to get me anything, you know." John hummed. Sherlock had never seemed like the sort of person to do Christmas, and giving, and general kindness. But the thought that Sherlock had actually thought to take the time to find something for John that he may like, or need was strangely endearing. The image flashed in his mind of Sherlock battling the crowds, with wrapping-paper-lightsabers and battling over the last barbie doll. 

"I wanted to." Sherlock hummed, his fingers working nimbly to secure the red, shining paper to his gift. "It's nothing, John, don't worry about it."

"I got you something too, you know." John smiled, shyly, as he looked down the corridor. At the other end, Mycroft wandered arm in arm with his date. Mycroft had proudly told John that she was some up and coming actress in some TV show that was going to bring her fame and fortune. John had tried to be impressed, but the girl was prettied than she was interesting, and John found it hard to talk about how hard the industry was for little more than half an hour. 

Sherlock didn't reply for some time, lost in conversation. John hadn't even realised the silence had fallen until Sherlock pulled open the door.

"Are you going tonight?" Sherlock asked, poking his head out the door, with a small smile at John. 

"Going to what?" John asked.

"The Christmas party, of course. Mummy holds one every year." Sherlock explained with a smile, opening the door to let John into his room. Sherlock moved to sit on his bed, while John remained by the door. He felt as though he was intruding into the man's space, a little. He didn't know why, but it felt different in here, now. Sherlock seemed more relaxed, more open. More vulnerable. "Christmas-Eve-Drinks, she calls it. Everyone wears a suit and congratulates each other on their wealth." He explained, the disdain for the event was obvious.

With a smirk, John moved to sit beside Sherlock on his bed. "Is that why you brought me the suit, you idiot?" 

Sherlock was quiet. "Yes."

John grinned, shoving Sherlock in the side, playfully, "Then of course I'll go, you idiot."

Sherlock gave John the suit after lunch. It was beautiful: A deep blue colour, classic yet modern, and fitted to perfection. John couldn't help but feel touched. Sherlock had clearly put a lot of thought into this. It was Sherlock's way of expressing beauty, affection. In John's eyes, it was almost loving.

*****

"Are you getting ready yet? Are you ready yet? Dressed?" Sherlock demanded, his fist banging relentlessly against John's door.

"Yes, yes, yes, alright, Jesus! Calm down!" John replied, as he fumbled with the buttons of his white shirt. "I'm just getting dressed." He called out, to Sherlock through the door. He'd meant to meet Sherlock at 7PM, but John had gotten distracted wandering around the grounds. As the darkness drew in, the chill of the winter air stinging his cheeks, he'd been so mesmerized by the sky, that he'd completely forgotten about the party. There were so many stars, so much to see, and the moon. God, he'd never seen a bigger moon. What did they call it? _La Bella Luna_? It glowed: cold, pale, distant and completely beautiful. "You can come in if you want?"

Sherlock waited for a moment, before he carefully pushed open the door. Sherlock's eyes fell onto John. He was standing by the window, wearing the suit trousers, and his white shirt, untucked. "John.." Sherlock breathed, a small smile tugging on the corners of his lips, as if he was frightened of it taking over his face. "You look fantastic." 

John blushed, looking out at the moon, again, as he tucked his shirt in. "Oh, Well, thank you, I suppose." John smiled, "So do you." He added, nodding over to Sherlock, who was dressed, as always, in one of those perfectly fitting suits, and that brilliant purple shirt. "But you always look fantastic, so.."

"Thank you." Sherlock smirked, as he wandered over to where John had left his tie, on his bedside table. "Here." He hummed, as he wandered over to his best friend. Carefully, Sherlock reached his hands up and around John's neck. John watched as Sherlock held his breath. Sherlock's gentle fingers worked the tie under John's collar, tying it at the front. His fingers smoothed it down John's chest. "There. Perfect." He smiled, his fingers still stroking over the silk tie, toying with the ends.

"I'm always perfect." John chuckled, carefully placing his hands over Sherlock's, as he held onto the tie.

"Yes." Sherlock hummed, with a small smile. "Yes, you are."

John smiled back at the man. They remained that way for some time. They most have looked ridiculous, all docile and pliant under each other's gaze. "We should um..."

"Yes." Sherlock sighed, releasing the man. "We're late enough as it is." 

John smiled his thanks at his flatmate, as he reached for his jacket. Sherlock's long fingers helped John slip into the jacket. It was perfect. The way the fabric was sculpted around his arms, the form over his shoulders, the gentle curve of his back accentuated perfectly by the shaping. "You really are fantastic, you know." Sherlock hummed. 

John chuckled, as he adjusted his sleeves, and fastened the buttons. "It's the suit, Sherlock. You just like the suit."

"I just like you."

John could only smile, as Sherlock lead John down the corridors, past the endless pictures and photographs and certificates, with Sherlock barely glancing at them, when John wanted nothing more than to inspect and memorize every one. If he could know Sherlock's past, maybe he could know Sherlock better. Maybe then things would be.. better. Things could be perfect.

The party itself was spectacular. Sherlock's mother had filled the kitchen with thousands of little _petite bouchees_ , of which John and Sherlock had ate far to many by the end of the night. There was music, and drinking, and they'd put a couple of patio-heaters outside, so that people could wander out into the cold of the Christmas-Eve air, and admire the views. 

Sherlock's mother had gotten incredibly drunk, but remained classy and domineering in her own way. Mycroft seemed to sort of... melt away when he drank, sitting quietly in the living room with his date, slurring sweet nothings at eachother. Sherlock, on the other hand, simply came alive. His warm body would lean and press against John, a sweet reminder of his life. He seemed to welcome the touchy-feely John that came out when he was drunk. 

"Hey, hey, hey, Sherlock.." John beamed, as he brought his glass of wine up to his lips, only finding he'd already drunk the alcohol inside, "You know, I quite like this. With you. With your family. And you." 

"Thank you, John." He smiled, bringing his hands up to touch his cheeks. They were warm, flushed pink, only he wasn't sure if it was due to the alcohol, or John's kindness. "I like it with you, too. Not been for years. Wanted you to come, you know." Sherlock hummed, prodding John's arm.

"I know, I know. That's why you asked me, you idiot." He grinned, his hand reaching out to grab Sherlock's finger, stopping him from poking him. And sort of. Well. Not letting go. 

"I am not an idiot!" Sherlock giggled, as he leant against John, again, watching as his aunt and uncle left the room. "Just wanted you to come, wanted you to be my plus one. My Sherlock, Plus one." He hummed.

"Sherlock, Plus John." John provided, as he hugged into Sherlock's arm a little, surprised by it's comfort. To look at Sherlock, you'd expect cold, rigid, and un-affectionate, but in contrast, Sherlock was beautifully warm, and soft and.... and lovely. 

"Equals love!" Sherlock beamed, before erupting into a burst of laughter, which John heartily joined in with. Clinging to each other, the two giggled. Just the two of them, against the rest of the world. Suddenly, however, Sherlock stopped. "Here, here, here, look, come with me!" He beamed, as he grabbed John's wrist, and tugged him away. They rushed through the kitchen, only pausing to pick up another bottle of wine, as they ran outside. 

"Ohhh!" John groaned, as the ran outside, into the bitter night air. "Oh, god, it's cold, Sherlock, this better... this better be good, Sherlock." He chuckled, wrapping his arms around his chest, to keep himself warm.

"No, no, No, here." Sherlock hummed, as he wrapped his arm around John, holding him close, "It's not that cold, not really. Not compared to me, anyway."

John frowned, pursing his lips. "Not cold. Warm. You're warm."

Sherlock remained quiet, looking up at the stars in wonder. "Beautiful." He hummed, pulling John closer in a tight embrace. "Look, can you see that one? That's.. um.. Pollux, Procyon, Sirius..." He hummed, his voice quiet and low into John's ear. He could feel the slight shift in John's posture, slight more relaxed. Or was he more tense? Sherlock couldn't quite tell. He could feel the man's body moving, with each deep breath, Could hear each inhale, each exhale. "Oh, John.." 

"Sherlock.." John hummed, leaning back into the man's touch. He was warm. So, so very warm. 

"I've lied to you." Sherlock whispered, after a moment. John could only frown. He knew Sherlock rarely told him the truth: not about what he was doing, or why, or how safe it was. But he hardly thought now was the time to confess. "You weren't asleep."

"Excuse me?" John asked, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to focus, tried to remember. All he could focus on was the way Sherlock shifted, moving to nuzzle his head into the curve of John's neck. He had to lean down slightly, but he didn't mind. And neither did John. How could he? When the man's soft hair tickled him so gently, his breathing warm and sticky against John's skin.

"That night. In the kitchen. When I... I came up behind you, and you... You were so soft, so warm, so lovely.. I.." Sherlock sighed, "Oh, John. I had to touch you, I long to touch you, to feel your warmth." Sherlock sighed, running his nose along John's skin, nestling into him. "Constantly."

John couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Everything was Sherlock. "W-What time is it, Sherlock?"

With a half-sigh, half-groan, as he looked at his watch. "Just after midnight, John." He whispered, carefully releasing the smaller man. "It's Christmas day." 

John smiled shyly, turning to face Sherlock. The man was brilliant, clever, infinitely clever. A genius. A bloody handsome genius, of course. John was a fool to not see it before. To not see how perfect they were, how they were Sherlock, and John. Sherlock, Plus John. A team. Wherever Sherlock went, John would follow. You leap, I leap. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock." John sighed, as he leant up to press his lips softly against Sherlock's. 

The detective froze, his fingers trembling as he ghosted over John's cheek, touching him softly, sweetly. After a moment, however (far too soon, Sherlock noted) John pulled away. His cheeks were a rosy pink colour, but the glint in his eyes remained. 

"I--" Sherlock gasped, the bitter air filling his lungs, "I have to go, John." He whispered, stealing one last kiss before he ran off upstairs, leaving John standing alone in the cold.


	14. December 25th

John was awoken the next morning by a throbbing head, and the throbbing of Sherlock's fist pounding against his door frantically at little after seven in the morning. 

"All right, All right, Jesus, okay!" John groaned, as he kicked the bedsheet off him. After Sherlock had run away last night -the bloody coward!- John had decided to stay up a little while longer, in an attempt to try to get to know some of Sherlock's family. Which, in hindsight, probably wasn't the best idea whilst hammered and missing the feel of your son/nephew/uncles lips. Nonetheless, he found most of the group a pleasant bunch, every one of them having a story or two to tell about Sherlock. The time with the toaster, the time at Sea World, Christmas 1996, he heard them all. And with each story, John could feel himself falling more and more into not-quite-love with Sherlock. But affection. Deep, unconditional, un-ending affection. That's what he'd call it.

"Are you up yet?" Sherlock demanded, as he barged into John's room, launching himself onto John's bed. "It's Christmas, John!" Sherlock grinned, as he crawled up the bed to sit beside John, who was still half asleep, rubbing his eyes as the sun shone through his wonder. No snow, today, but a beautiful, wintery blue sky. 

"Yes, I know that.." John grumbled with a yawn, as he sat up, looking over at Sherlock. Did the man even remember anything about --

"Yes, of course I remember, John, I just haven't decided what I am going to do about it, yet." Sherlock snapped, just on cue. Of course he knew what John was thinking. When didn't he?

"Right." 

With a deep breath, Sherlock reached for John's covers, and pulled them high up over him, so that only his head was peeping out the top. A sea of fabric, and a mass of curls to top i all off. "You can go back to sleep, if you like." Sherlock hummed, as he curled up beside the good doctor. 

"Hmm." John sighed, as he mirrored the man, tucking his legs up, and snuggling down beside Sherlock, facing him. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled, softly, his hands reaching out to take John's. With a deep breath, he let his eyes slip shut. "Merry Christmas John." 

*****

When the two awoke, some two hours later, the peaceful domesticity of their situation remained as they both dressed, quietly. John opted for his favorite Christmas jumper - the navy one, with the red bits and little patterns around the neckline and shoulders. Sherlock told John he hated it, but he couldn't hide the way he kept stealing glances. John even saw him smiling, once.

When the two headed downstairs, the Holmes family were everywhere in a bustling of noise and excitement. Mummy Holmes was in the kitchen, helping her guests to the beautiful breakfast she'd prepared, which John couldn't help but indulge in. Sherlock didn't have any - said he needed his brain for thinking, today, and neither of them needed to explain why. In the living area, many of the Holmes family were exchanging gifts and talking over cups of steaming hot chocolate. John had even seen Mycroft chuckling away with one of his cousins at one point. And he supposed that was what Christmas was all about: Family, food, indulging, relaxing, and love. Looking around, now, John could see all of that with Sherlock's family. He couldn't help but smile.

"All right, so when do you want your prezzie, then, mate?" John asked, after an hour or so of watching Sherlock's family enjoy their new gifts - iPads, New silk Shirts, Gold-plated everything. It was all too extravagant for John's liking, and Sherlock's too.

"Oh, I had completely forgotten. Um. Do you want to exchange gifts now?" Sherlock suggested, as he leant back into his chair. He looked down at his lap, noting the way their thighs brushed together ever so slightly. Perfect.

"Yeah. Yeah, all right, then."

And so the boys made their excuses, as the quickly disappeared off to their rooms to locate their gifts. When John emerged, he was carrying a large, rather heavy, box. Silver wrapping paper, with tiny snowflakes on, and a little tag that read: _Dear Sherlock, Merry Christmas, Love John x_

Sherlock's gift was much smaller, not that the gift would be less significant than John's, Sherlock was sure of it. He held the little box tightly between his index finger and thumb, as they approached each other in the hallway. It was so quiet. John hadn't noticed the screaming silence of the house before, unlike 221B where even alone, there seemed to be some sort of movement, noise, life.

"Shall we sit down?" Sherlock suggested.

"Here?" 

Sherlock nodded. 

The two sat, then, cross-legged on the cool, wooden floor, their knees barely a few centimeters apart. "Here." John smiled, as he passed Sherlock the box. "I don't know much about these things, so if it's wrong, I'll take it back, but I saw you drooling over it the other week, and so I thought.. why not?" He smiled, shyly. 

Sherlock smiled his thanks, as he took the box. He read the tag. Noted the change in ink between the message, and the little kiss at the end. John had only just added that. Last night, or perhaps this morning. Sentiment?

With a deep breath, Sherlock carefully removed the wrapping paper, unfolding it with surgical care. He folded it beside him. "Oh, John.." Sherlock sighed, as his eyes fell onto the box. A new Microscope. It was a high-spec one, too, the one he'd been lusting over the other week, just as John had said. Sherlock didn't even think he'd noticed. "This is too much, John, I can't accept this."

"Yes, you can. Is it all right, I hope it's the one you wanted?" John smiled, his cheeks glowing. 

"It's perfect, John, You're perfect, thank you!" Sherlock beamed, as he carefully put the box down, and lurched forwards to hug John quickly. No sooner than his arms had encircled the man, were they gone again. "Here. It's er... it's nothing much, not compared to um... well, this. But i hope it's all right." Sherlock mumbled, seeming almost shy as he handed John the small box. 

"Rubbish, I bet it's brilliant." John smiled, reading the tag. _From Sherlock. Xx_ ,, before he tore into the red paper, noting the delicate, shinning patterns on it. Inside, was a small, black velvet-covered box. The kind with the lid that opened from one side. The kind you get from a jewelry shop. John glanced up at Sherlock in confusion, but the man wasn't looking at him, anymore. He seemed almost.. ashamed? 

Opening the lid, inside John saw the most beautiful of silver chains. It glistened like fresh snow in the box. He carefully took it into his hand, only now seeing the two dog tags that chinked together. Being as gentle as he can, as if he was afraid to hurt the damn thing, John looked closer. On both dog tags, there was an engraving. On one, _J.W_. On the other, _S.H_. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield.

"Oh, Sherlock.." John smiled, running his thumb over the metal, "It's beautiful." He hummed, carefully putting the chain around his neck. "Truly, it is, it's better than anything I could have hoped for in a million, trillion years, mate."

Sherlock only blushed in reply. 

"Thank you." John added, after a moment, but still the man said nothing. After a moment's silence, John spoke again."You all right?"

"As long as you wear these, John.." Sherlock started, voice low and quiet, just the way John liked it (But he'd never admit that). With a deep breath, his hand reached out for the dog tags, "You will be reminded of me. You can never forget me. We will be Sherlock-And-John forever. My best friend, and .. and everything."

John smiled, his cheeks now glowing red. John the bloody red-cheeked reindeer? "Sherlock, how could you think I'd forget you, love?" He smiled, his finger resting over Sherlock's as they toyed with the tags. "I'm never, ever going to forget you, never stop thinking about you, Sherlock. You're everything, to me." He explained with a shrug, trying to be nonchalant, despite the pounding of his heart in his chest.

"You're my everything." Sherlock replied, quietly.

"I'm just yours, mate." John chuckled. Sherlock smiled in return.

Sherlock blinked once, before he leant forwards quickly to press his lips to John's again. It was different from last night, of course it was. There was none of the magic of the stars, shining coldly in the cloudless sky, none of the haze of their breath spiraling around them as they embraced. None of the warmth of the alcohol, none of the artificial festivities that had clouded their minds before. This felt real. Honest. Genuine. Two lips, two people, nothing more. 

"Better?" John asked with a small smile, after a moment.

"Better." Sherlock smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, my dears! Hope you have a lovely day, make sure you tell people you love them, kiss them if you can! Heres to those not with us, too. Have a great day, and I hope you get everything your heart desires!


	15. December 26th

On Boxing day, The Holmes family conducted a rather large hike. Thankfully, John had been at least reasonably prepared for this, and so wore some brown boots, old(ish) jeans, and a warm jumper under his coat. Sherlock seemed less prepared, and had to borrow some shoes from one of his uncles. He looked charming, though, in those ridiculously tight black jeans that John knew Sherlock would have hidden forever, unless he was forced to wear them. John actually liked the way he looked in them, but didn't want to intimidate Sherlock in saying so. The detective already felt self-conscious in his dark sweater, over his shirt. The collar poked through out the neckline. He looked like one of those sweet, geeky English professors all the girls would have had a crush on. John without a doubt would have been one of those girls.

"Don't forget to bring some water, Sherlock." John had reminded him, before they set off, at approximately 10am, after the whole family had eaten a healthy breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast, or a choice of cereal. Sherlock had eggs, with orange juice. John had the same, only with coffee. John had always noticed that even when Sherlock 'wasn't eating', he liked to have orange juice. Something about keeping his body full of vitamins, probably. Got to stay alert, and all that nonsense he'd reel off.

Of course, Sherlock forgot to pick up a water bottle, and they were only an hour into their walk through the vast, unending universe of the countryside when Sherlock whined about being thirsty. John had, at first, done his 'I-told-you-so' speech, but soon felt bad for Sherlock. At times, he could be a child, and John often felt responsible for him. But much like with any naughty, uncontrollable child, you couldn't help but love it, and want to nourish it, and help it grow to be better. John gave Sherlock his water.

By midday, the group were beginning to head back, after an exhausting tour of the surrounding area. Sherlock's mother had shown them a place called "Little Hollow," and "Fairy's Rock," and her favorite view across the fields. Sherlock had little stories to tell about each place, which he would whisper to John. John knew he was just trying to appear intelligent. It's only called little because there's a bigger one, up the road. Fairy's aren't real, John, but where the name the locals called the travelers who came to stay here. Yet, it was the little things like that which John couldn't help but lap up.

Sherlock didn't have a story to tell about the final view, only took John's hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Sherlock didn't let go all the way home, as they fell to the back of their group, like cowboys rounding up their flock. Cowboys who happened to hold hands, as they wandered through soft, green meadows, and fields dotted with flowers. 

John pointed out sheep, in the next field. Sherlock hummed in reply. 

They were home in time for a late lunch of leftover turkey in soft, white bread rolls. The family chatted away about how lovely it was to see the area, again. About how much it had changed since last year/the last time they visited/when they were little. John wasn't really listening. And neither was Sherlock, who was still holding John' hand, under the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting a little domestic, I'm afraid. But fear not! There shall be some lust-filled nights, soon!
> 
> Also, I'm behind schedule again. I forgot to take my laptop away with me. Sorry! Short chapters until I catch up.


	16. December 29th

"I have been thinking about New Year." Sherlock beamed one afternoon. The two hadn't addressed the change in their relationship, but nor did they seem to need to. Nothing had changed, much. Yesterday, John had been wandering back to his room, after a spot of reading in the library, and decided to check in on Sherlock. He'd asked if Sherlock was all right. Sherlock had said he was, much like usual. Only Sherlock quickly ran up to steal a quick kiss, before closing the door on John, as he would usually have done. 

"Oh yeah? What about it?" John asked, as he leafed through that day's newspaper, over breakfast. He wasn't really listening. Most of the time when Sherlock began a sentence with "I've been thinking about", it ended up in a long, endless ramble about God knows what.

"I've been thinking about New Year-" He started, "-And how I usually don't care about this sort of thing, as I usually stay up past midnight anyway, it's rarely special and I find the general idea juvenile. It's just _time_ passing, nothing special, and--" Sherlock explained, hurriedly, his fingers drumming on the table. The man was simply bursting with energy, knees bouncing eagerly.

"Oh, for God's sake Sherlock, just spit it out!" John sighed, placing a steadying hand on Sherlock's knee. They stopped bouncing. 

"Mummy holds a little party. Or we could go out. The local town, I hear, holds some nice celebrations, and I really don't normally do this sort of nonsense, but really I was just thinking and.." Sherlock rambled nervously, his eyes darting around the room. "I was really just sort of asking what you wanted to do, because I just want to be with you, really."

John chuckled, deciding just to be that little bit cruel and not answer, as he carefully folded the newspaper up, and took a bite from his toast. "So..." he hummed, sipping his tea. Sherlock's eyes were locked on John, now, following his every move. It was as though if he dared to look away, he might disappear, or cease to exist, or just worse: run away. "So, what?" He said, leaning closer to Sherlock. He could feel the electric anxiety sparking off Sherlock, that lightning tension between them both. "What is it you're asking, Sherlock?"

Sherlock exhaled, his entire body seeming to relax, as he leant closer, "I.. John, I'm asking if you'll be my date." He whispered, rushing out the words like runners at the start of a sprint. Marks. Set. Go. 

"Like... a two people who like each other and go out and have fun date, or a proper, holding hands and being soppy date?" John asked, his voice barely a murmur, so only Sherlock could hear. He wouldn't mind speaking normally with the man, but he wasn't sure if Sherlock wanted to have this conversation, yet. Not in the same way they'd talk about cases, or who got the milk, or what they wanted for dinner. To say it out loud, normally, would be to make it part of normal life. And maybe Sherlock wasn't ready for that. Maybe Sherlock didn't even want that. What happens at Mummy's, stays at Mummy's? 

"Proper date." Sherlock replied, his voice low and quiet, as if the quieter he said it, the more likely it was to be the correct answer. The answer John wanted. This theory proved to be true.

"Good." John smiled, giving Sherlock's knee a quick squeeze. "We'll talk about whether we want to go out, or stay in, later, if you want? But you should eat some more breakfast." 

Sherlock smirked, his cheeks warming a little. He knew John would want to be with him. The two were inseparable, usually, and their new development only seemed to highlight this. It was just what they called it now which was different. Before, it had been Dinner, or Cases, or Hanging out. Now it was dates. Proper dates. Nothing had seemed to change at all, but the most important thing, which was very different indeed. They didn't need to lie, anymore. They could be each other's date. 

John chuckled to himself.

"What?" Sherlock asked, suddenly panicked. Oh, God, was it him?

John smiled, shaking his head, his amusement obvious. "Angelo will be thrilled."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I have no idea whether I want them to go out or stay in at new year - help?


	17. December 31st

"Are you ready?" Sherlock asked, his fist banging over and over and bloody over on John's door. 

"Yes, nearly, all right!" John snapped, storming over to pull open the door, just to stop that relentless sound. "Impatient bastard." He mumbled, as he wandered back into his room. Sherlock followed, smiling smugly to himself, as if he'd just thought of the most fantastic joke. "Right, go on then, what have you done?" John asked, with a sigh, as he pulled on a shirt, fingers working the buttons up.

"Oh, nothing.." Sherlock replied, in such a way that left John knowing that it was probably _oh, something quite naughty, really_. Quirking his eyebrow at Sherlock, John moved to sit on his bed. He crossed one leg over the other. Pulled on his socks. "I've just been thinking, really." Sherlock finally admitted, as he leant against a nearby wall, look all too cool and sophisticated for John's liking. It was distracting, really: all legs and arms and his slim hips, and that bloody beautiful arse. 

"Well, that's rarely good." John replied, with a little chuckle to himself. He knew it always wound Sherlock up to interrupt him, or tease him about his thinking. Despite what he'd like people to believe, Sherlock was very sensitive, and cared a lot about what people (John.) thought. His mind was what Sherlock agreed to be the most important part of him. For John to tease him about that was a sure-fire way to annoy him. "Nah, go on then, Sherlock. I'm listening. Tell me." John smiled.

"No, No." Sherlock sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "If you don't want to know, then I wont tell you."

"Don't be an idiot, mate, course I wanna know." John replied, leaning forwards, worry quickly building in his stomach. He couldn't fight with him on New Years eve, now when everything was so fragile between them. 

Sherlock only smirked. "Just put your shoes on."

*****

"Where are we actually going?" John asked, after some five minutes silence in the back of a taxi cab. Used to watching the bright haze of lights and movement of the city, the vast blanket of darkness out the window was a welcome change. Looking up, he could see a million little clusters of stars, each one casting their steady gaze down on the two. 

Sherlock didn't answer.

*****

When the taxi finally pulled over, ten minutes later, they had arrived within a little village. It was the sort where you could ask 'has anyone seen Margaret?', and at least five people would have seen her that hour, know what she was wearing, who she was talking to, and exactly what her movements would be for the next week. It hardly seemed the place for a wild New Years party, but John gave Sherlock the benefit of the doubt. Sherlock guided John around the corner, where the soft glow of light from a pub flooded out onto the street. John could already hear the buzz of music and people talking, the taste of alcohol in the air. Outside the door, there were a couple smoking. John noticed Sherlock inhale deeply as they walked past. John didn't complain. 

Inside, it was much your typical country pub, the kind of thing John would expect to see in Emmerdale. The walls were a deep shade of red, or was it more of a burgundy? The bar was lined with every kind of whiskey you could dream of : smokey, fruity, peaty, light, as well as the usual beverages you'd expect from a bar. He could see why somebody would like it in here, John couldn't deny the place had an odd charm, and his preconception about it being boring could not have been more wrong. The place was rammed with people all jostling together, pushing into eachother to compete to get to the bar. 

"Bloody hell." Was the only words John could find to express himself, as Sherlock took him by the arm, and pushed him down into a little booth at the back. 

"What do you want to drink?" Sherlock asked, looking down at John, who looked thoroughly bewildered in this new environment. "Oh, I'll just get you a pint of something." He sighed, before disappearing off to the bar. John watched, somewhat fascinated, as Sherlock somehow managed to use his supernatural, otherworldly, not-quite-a-God energy to wriggle his way towards the bar within a matter of moments. His slim body snaked through the crowd again a few moments later, carefully clutching two drinks. He didn't spill one drop.

"You're a bit graceful, you know." John smiled, as the man returned, taking a healthy sip from his drink.

"I'm going to take that as a compliment." Sherlock smirked, as he moved to sit beside John. Carefully, he reached to take a long sip of his beer, wincing at the flavour.

John frowned. Sherlock hardly seemed the type to drink very often, and what with his unconventional eating and sleeping habits, John felt more than a little concerned about what the effects of the alcohol would have on Sherlock. "You sure you're alright to drink, mate?" He asked, not exactly wanting to look after a blacked-out Sherlock later in the evening. "Have you eaten?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock snapped, reaching for his drink again, as if in defiance of John's doubt. Sherlock had eaten some cereal at lunchtime, and an apple at about four. That was practically a feast, in Sherlock's eyes. But that didn't excuse his tone, towards John, who was now frowning. Glancing at him, Sherlock knew he should apologise, but didn't really know how. The words didn't ever feel right in his mouth. Perhaps it was the years of refusing it, of being told that Holmes-es don't apologise to anyone.

Holmes-es apologise to John Watsons. With a deep breath, he did so, silently, reaching for John's hand. His cold fingers ghosted over the skin, curling around his hand protectively. John made a point of not mentioning it. The two just sipped their beer again.

After a while, half a pint later, John finally spoke again, "I bet you're itching to do something. This is all really.. domestic, for you." He hummed, eyes darting around the room, resting on the smoking couple, who had now come back inside, and kissing rather heatedly over by the bar. 

Sherlock followed John's gaze, smiling. "Bit early for that, don't you think?" He chuckled, quietly, as he leant into John, "It's not too bad. Lots of people to look at." He hummed, lifting John's hand, which was still in his own, so it rested on John's lap. He could feel the fabric of John's jeans, rough and soft at the same time. 

"You deducing, then?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock, suddenly finding him close (too close, maybe?) but not mentioning it. 

"Might be." Sherlock smirked, eyes shining. Sherlock was like a bubbling, playful puppy. He was so rarely in this sort of mood, John knew he had to make the most of it. 

"Go on, then. What about them? The two love-birds by the bar." John nodded in their direction.

The two were still consuming eachother's mouths. The female had short, bright orange hair, that seemed to almost glitter under the soft lighting of the pub. She was about the same height as John, even whilst wearing those little red heels. He couldn't get a clear view of the male, but he was significantly taller than her, and had to stoop over to kiss her. If you could call it kissing. To John, it looked almost like foreplay. 

"They've never met." Sherlock said simply, leaning back in his seat, a smug little smirk on his lips again. 

"Okay, there's no way I'm going to believe that. Look at them!" John chuckled in disbelief as downed the rest of his drink. "They're practically dry humping with us watching." John pointed out. Oh, God, they were watching. That was probably a bit not good. Cheek's flushed, John tore his gaze away, looking up at Sherlock, who only continued to watch, eyes gleaming with interest.

"Look at her: You can practically see her arse. As I've been told, men do not like their women to be coveted by other men." Sherlock reasoned, only for John to give him the look at Sherlock had affectionately dubbed 'There-is-no-way-you're-that-clever'. John liked to call the look 'Bullshit'."Condom, back pocket. Saw it as we walked passed. Either they have a serious Public Sex kink, which is possibly with his hand up her skirt like that, or he brought that with the expectation of fucking somebody tonight. Which, by today's society, probably seems like a more likely explanation. One night stands and all that." He rambled off, finishing his deductions with a triumphant swig of his drink.

"You've got a filthy mouth, you know." John sighed, shaking his head, "But I don't believe you. Look at them. They're.. yeah. Too close to be strangers?" He offered, weakly, as an alternative. 

Sherlock only chuckled, as he moved closer to John, "You're telling me you've never fucked a stranger? No rushed fondling in the toilets?" He teased, "Because I wont believe you, if you say no." Sherlock smirked, eyes still locked on the couple, her hand now flat against his crotch, palming him gently, as he gripped the bar. Nobody seemed to care, it was as if they were they only ones who had noticed. Their own personal show. 

"Once or twice. When I was younger, maybe." John breathed, barely able to think. Why was Sherlock so close to him? And why the fuck couldn't he take his eyes of his hand, up her skirt. Some part of his mind wondered if she was wet. What she'd feel like. Jesus. Focus.

"You need another drink." Sherlock suddenly decided, after a moment. With a quick breath in, he kissed the edge of John's earlobe, just by his jaw. Grabbing John's empty glass with his own, he disappeared off to the bar, again, leaving John to watch the couple. After a few minutes - Sherlock seemed to be having less luck at the bar, this time - the couple rushed out of the pub, hand in hand. Perhaps Sherlock was right. It would have been strange if he'd been anything but correct. 

When Sherlock returned, in one hand he struggled with two pints, in the other he clutched at two shots of.. well.. something. "Here." He beamed, as he slid the little glass across the table. "Drink up." 

"What is it?" John asked, eyeing the liquid suspiciously. 

"Rum," He grinned, eyes gleaming as he sunk back into his seat, beside John. "Pirates drink it. Cheers." He held up the little glass between his thumb and fore-finger.

"Cheers." They both drunk, downing it quickly. "Gah, Thanks, Sherlock. I'll sort what I owe you for all this later, if you want?"

"Nonsense, it's on me." Sherlock argued, with a gentle pat on John's thigh. Only he decided not to take his hand back again.

"So er.. Pirates, yeah?" John teased, "Didn't know you were into that sort of thing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Of course I do." He replied, in that tone that bugged John the most. It was obvious, to Sherlock. "They're brilliant. They go around stealing things, and getting women, and sailing. They've got swords, John. Swords." 

John only chuckled, "So, women, then? Not me?" He replied, pouting playfully.

"Oh, I don't even like women." Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively. "You're much more fun. My wench." Sherlock smirked, giving John's thigh a gentle squeeze. 

"Oi. I'm not your wench." John wiggled under the man's touch, blushing a little at the affect it had on him. Breathing a little fast, a little more shallow. 

"Oh, please?" Sherlock pouted, eyes shining with something John hadn't seen in the man before. John couldn't help but grin. "Yeah, all right, then." 

And that was it settled, so to speak. For a while, they discussed Sherlock's dream ship, his opinion on the Pirates of The Caribbean films - which John had been more than a little surprised that Sherlock had seen, and hated. They talked strategies for burring treasure, all while they swiftly finished their second pint. All the while, John would lean in closer to the man, and Sherlock's hand would creep higher up John's thigh. 

After halfway through their third drink, Sherlock leaned over, lips a fraction away from John's neck, as he breathed, "Did you like it? When we were watching that couple." He could feel his hot, warm breath bouncing off the man's skin.

"Um.. Sorry?" John asked, the voice rushing through him, tickling down his spine, and tugging in his abdomen. "Why do you ask that?" John mumbled, voice weak.

Sherlock's hand only moved up to cup John through his jeans, in way of a reply.

"Um. Yeah. Yeah, it was nice." John breathed, coughing nervously, as he desperately tried to act as though his best mate's hand wasn't on his cock. "Sherlock, what're you --"

"--Shh." He hummed, palming against him just as the ginger-haired woman had. Sherlock was so calm, John could see the rise and fall of his chest, unaffected by the action. How was he so calm? Oh, God, why did it feel so nice? 

It was then that Sherlock decided to stop moving, and just hold his hand there, still, calm. His eyes flicked about the room, once, before he rambled off about pirates again. Well, it might have been pirates, John wasn't really listening any more. 

"Sherlock.." John breathed, a half sigh, half moan. His knuckles were almost white with the strength to which he gripped his pint glass. "Sherlock, you're hand is..." He tried to speak, but found the words just wouldn't come out. His cock was so warm, sleepily beginning to stir, but desperate for the touch. 

"Yes, I know." Sherlock said, dismissively. "What are you going to do about it?" 

"Um. Yeah. Nothing. Continue." He breathed, cheeks flushed bright pink. It was obscene: Sherlock was practically giving him a hand job under the table, in the middle of the pub he probably snuck into as a child. And the thing that was worse, was that nobody had noticed. It might have been alright if John could hurriedly apologise for Sherlock's (drunk?) actions, and usher the man outside, to shout out (and snog?). But It was fine. Nobody saw. And John was definitely getting off on this.

Across the room, the barman's eyes locked on John's for a moment. John's lips fell apart, gasping for air. _Stop_ , he longed to say, _Stop, please, people are looking._ he would have said. He must have known. His pupils were blown wide, cock reaching up for more contact, more friction, more anything. Oh, God. 

"You know, I never really wanted to go out, anyway." Sherlock hummed, quietly, into John's each, lips brushing over the skin. A tentative tongue even dared to lick his lobe, softly, drawing a low, throaty moan for John. Sherlock soaked up the sound, his hand squeezing gently. _Too soft, more, please, God, more._ "Want to go home?"

"Oh, God, yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued in the early hours of the first! But i need to rush out, now!
> 
> As you can see I er... I couldn't really decide what to do. So thank you all for helping me! Hope you all have a fantastic new year! And Sherlock tomorrow. We deserve this, guys!


	18. January 1st

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, Sorry for taking so long. Life tangled me up in it's tentacles for a moment, and tried to down me.

Frantic fingers dragged John out of the small pub. Hands grabbed at John's shirt, a thousand flashes of Sherlock were pushing, pulling, pulsating, gyrating, and reaching out for him like trees branches, scratching his skin, catching on his clothing. Bright eyes of every colour watched eagerly, sharp gazes seeing through him, reading every thought. Were they deducing him? Did they even need to? They all knew why Sherlock was dragging him away, like that. They all could see John's expression (something between fear, excitement, and embarrassment.) and John could hardly hide the bulge in his jeans. He wanted to scream. It was all too loud, too hot, too enclosed, with the small ceiling that nearly brushed Sherlock's curls, as he stormed through the hot, sticky, sweating pub. 

"Sherlock.."

The barman was watching John, an owl with his sharp nose, and smiling eyes. He knew. They all knew. 

"Sherlock, wait, please." 

Sherlock, if he was even listening, ignored John. Maybe he couldn't be heard over the calls of the wild forest of a bar, each animal sat waiting for their prey. Was Sherlock John's predator? Perhaps. Did that mean John had to be afraid of the hunt, of being consumed? It didn't feel wrong to want to be devoured, to have Sherlock's claws scratch at him, his teeth bite perhaps that little bit too close to his jugular. He wanted to fall limp in the mouth of his predator, Sherlock Holmes the hunter. 

John's fingers gripped on Sherlock's hands, damp with sweat, as if his desire was trying to seep out through the pores in his skin. Outside, the bitter air and light rain wasn't nearly as sobering as it ought to have been. The rain dampened his clothes, making it cling to his skin like spiders webs, all sticky and tight and desperate for his skin. 

There was an uncomfortable moment's silence as the two stood side by side, the rain falling quietly around them. Not a sound seemed to matter, not the distant echo of the music from the pub, not the squawking of nearby adolescents. Only the rain, the gentle patter of water, filled their ears. 

"You were touching me." John breathed, after a moment, his hand still clinging tightly to Sherlock, who in turn was holding John's back like a python. The bite was venomous, and oh, God, how John liked it. 

"I was, Yes." Sherlock replied, as he reached into his pocket, to find his phone. He had to let go of John for a moment, quickly hammering his fingers onto his phone, to arrange for a car to come and pick them up. Organisation really shouldn't be that attractive in a man. "You.. liked it?" Sherlock asked, tentatively. 

John smirked, making a little grunting sound, which Sherlock knew to mean 'don't be an idiot, you already know that.' John could see the way Sherlock's back straightened a little, in pride, like a peacock, exploding in colour and pride and desire. 

"I could do it again, if you wanted." Sherlock hummed, after a moment. His body shifted slightly, in anticipation. Looking up at the angular, spectacular man, John could see his thoughts lain out plain: Sherlock was already thinking about it. Thinking about his hand on John's cock, again.

Oops, and there goes John, thinking about it too. "I do want that." He whispered, in reply, his fingers stretching out slightly. Nervous habit. This seemed to please Sherlock very, very much, his own hands shoving deep into the cavernous pits of his pockets. If he was a good man, Sherlock would have reached out and touched John, there and then. Whether if was his cock, his thigh, his hand, or just a gentle brushing of fingers. Or maybe that would have made him bad? 

Either way, Sherlock was a fucking tease, and John loved it. "Meanie." John chuckled.

Behind them, a chorus of voice erupted in delight. "It's time." Sherlock mumbled, ominously, as the pub-goers in the building behind them, and inevitably the millions across the nation, began their countdown. Sherlock's eyes where locked on John's, who in turn only stood, captivated under Sherlock's hawk-like stare. _Ten, Nine, Eight..._ Should John join in with the countdown? He didn't want to ruin the moment. Or have Sherlock tease him for celebrating something so childish as the passing of another year. _Seven, Six, Five, Four..._ What would he even do by the time the coundown was up? Should he kiss Sherlock? You were meant to kiss people at new year. And the man just had his hand on John's cock. Kiss him. Definitely kiss him.

 _Three,Two, one..._ Sherlock's eyes pulled away. Exhaling, John looked down at his feet. Kiss him, his mind hissed, but found his body unable to respond. Why wasn't Sherlock kissing him, either, though? They should have kissed, John knew it. The air between them was now tight and sharp, like a thin wire pulling them together, or a fragile toothpick wedged between them. If they got any closer, they would surely be impaled. 

The two waited, side by side in the pouring rain, for some further ten minutes until the car arrived, a Black Jaguar, with tinted windows. How could it be anything else? The two climbed in, without another word. Sherlock held the door open with practiced, but forgotten chivalry that John sometimes saw make an appearance. It was the little things - holding doors open, lifting up the tape at crime scenes, letting him see the dead body first that John liked. It showed that Sherlock was thinking about John, before himself.

The rain was still falling, racing across the window and making the lights outside seem all sort and hazy, like little fireflies or fairies. In the car, the driver chatted away, which John had to admit was a little unusual for a Holmes chauffeur/kidnapper (in his experience, that was). They tried to listen, really, they did. But somewhere between the gently vibrating and rocking of the car, as it raced under bridges, and through the winding, deep roads of the country, and the way Sherlock's eyes did not tear away from the fleshy goodness of John's lips for a moment, they stopped listening. 

"What do you what?" John mouthed, after a moment, while the driver rambled on about what his daughter was up to for New Year. Turned a corner. Splashed into a large puddle. 

"You." Sherlock breathed back, his voice barely audible over the persistent hum of the engine. John could only smile in reply, eyelids heavy with his want.

Sucking on his lower lip, Sherlock leant forwards, to press a kiss to John's cheek, soft and sweet and calm, in contrast to the detective's break from swan-like grace, his heart pounding, breath hot and heavy from his lips. John could only sigh in response.

Sherlock's lips, plump and soft and slightly damp from where he had licked them, trailed over John's cheek. Brushing over the warm, delicate skin, Sherlock let his tongue dart out for a moment, to taste the flesh, before his lips continued to make their way towards John's lips. Towards his pirate treasure.

Once Sherlock kissed his way to the corner of John's mouth, the doctor's heartrate was more than a little raised. The man was practically panting, as Sherlock pressed his lips to John's. The detective's mouth kissed John's upper lip, then lower lip in turn, before his tongue flicked out once more, to lick over the two. Sherlock heard John whimper, and couldn't help but smile smugly. The times he'd heard that sound, that horrid sound, from John's lips but caused by somebody else were uncountable (23, not that Sherlock _had_ been counting). Jealousy had been paralytic, then, only it wasn't jealousy, was it? It was love. And envy. Envy of the women who got to kiss John and claim him and have him all to themselves. But John was his now, and it was Sherlock who was making john produce those sounds. Those delicious sounds that the driver was so oblivious to.

"Fuck, Sherlock.." John breathed, as he pulled away for a moment, taking in a gasping breath of air, only to find Sherlock descend upon his lips again, in a frantic kiss. All lips, and tongues, and unexpected skill from Sherlock Holmes, John was pliant under the man's mouth, letting Sherlock explore him (or claim, his mind provided). His hands were gripping at John's ridiculous shirt, pulling him closer, groping at the man's torso, feeling him through the thin fabric. John's own hands were resting at Sherlock's hips, thumbs stroking gently at the spot. And all while their driver continued to ramble on about his son's latest escapade at school.

Dragging John's lower lip between his teeth, Sherlock concentrated on John. His every thought was _his_ John. All he could see was John: if he were to open his eyes, he'd see only John, close, and soft, and warm, in every minute detail (Note to Self - Sherlock's mind buzzed - Memorize John's body later). All he could smell was the man's scent, a sort of mix between grass and John's aftershave. His ears were filled with those desperate soft please of, "Oh, God, Sherlock.. Fuck..." those breathy sighs, and the delicious wetness of their lips moving together. His lips tingled with the taste of John's lips, his skin, his tongue, everything tasted so very, very intensely John. Every part of his body, even through to the tingling in the very tips of his long, talon-like fingers, was tuned to John, and giving him the best kiss he possibly could.

"John.." Breathed that sinfully low voice, almost a growl. His hands had stilled, lips now resting against John's, rather than that desperate devouring the man had been doing, before. John, trembling under the man's hold, could only sigh in reply, the sound vaguely resembling Sherlock's name. "We're home." He smirked, as he released John perfunctorily, before swooping out of the car, his coat billowing behind him dramatically, as Sherlock so liked it.

"Right." John breathed, as he followed the man, muttering a thanks to the driver, before he raced after Sherlock, who was now at the door. "You're such a bastard."

Sherlock didn't reply, one hand shoved in the pocket of his trousers, the other fumbling with the key to the manor house. Behind them, John heard as the car pulled away to park, elsewhere, leaving the long driveway empty, again. Eventually, the door clicked open, and Sherlock stormed inside. All momentum, no thinking. Oh, dear Lord, what had John done to make Sherlock activate this instinctive animal, with these violent desires? "Come." He hissed, as he raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time. 

John couldn't help but giggle, as he ran after the man. He was about to ask whether Vera would have planned something for the other Holmes guests tonight, and whether they'd all be up, when they passed one of Sherlock's uncles on the second flight of stairs up to Sherlock's room. "Home so soon?" He'd asked, to which John hoped Sherlock had grumbled some sort of reply. John was all too absorbed in trying to hide his erection, which he'd been sporting since the car ride.

"In. Now." Sherlock hissed, as he suddenly drew to a stop outside his bedroom door. On the little doorsign, the astronaut figure smiled down at him. _Well done, John._ it grinned. John couldn't help but whimper, feeling his cheek's heat in a blush. He quickly obeyed the order, stumbling into Sherlock's bedroom, finding it just as they'd left it - clothes strewn across the back of Sherlock's desk chair, but otherwise meticulously tidy. 

There was a moment of silence as Sherlock studied John. His cool, impassive eyes trailed from John's shoes up his thighs, trailing up the denim of John's jeans. He waited a moment at the join of John's thigh to his hips, before continued to inspect his catch. He couldn't help but smile slightly, as he reached his prey's face. "Mine." He breathed, before he turned his back, and closed the door. 

Shivers ran down John's spine, Sherlock's eyes like tickling, teasing fingers, as Sherlock finally looked back to him. A heartbeat, if that, and the two pounced at each other. Their arms snaking their way around waists, necks, pulling bodies closer. Fingers gripping, pulling tugging at each other's clothes. Lips locked in a desperate kiss, toeing their shoes off as the first offending piece of clothing to be discarded. The two flicked their tongues together, as Sherlock pulled John closer, roughly shoving him against a wall. John thought he'd heard Sherlock speak again - 'mine', again, maybe? - but didn't care. God, how could he, now that Sherlock was grinding his hips against John. Cock against cock through the tight fabric of their trousers.

"Wait, wait wait!" John breathed after a moment lost under the bliss of Sherlock's actions "If we... if we do this, I wont last." He explained, quietly.

"Dull." Sherlock replied, but John saw that little glint in Sherlock's eyes. He was pleased. Behind his withdrawn exterior, Sherlock desired contact. He craved it like a drug. Perhaps he was addicted, now, to John. He needed his next fix, more and more, in greater quantities, in purer forms. Undiluted John, a lifetime's supply, please. "I want to look at you." Sherlock breathed, his voice rumbling in his chest, as his hands worked at the buttons of John's shirt. 

His breathing was heavy, quick, short, shallow. John could see it in the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest that he was stupendously aroused. The thick, warm cock pressed into his thigh was the second clue. The third? Sherlock's penetrating stare as inch by inch, Sherlock revealed John's chest. He was fairly tanned, and definitely toned. Who'd have know the man was hiding such a body beneath those stupid, stupid jumpers. "Oh, John.." Sherlock breathed, as he tugged the shirt off John's shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

Shoulders. John's shoulder's were broad, muscular, and almost flawless, fail for the tearing white scar the riddled over the skin of John's left shoulder. In short, it was beautiful. If Sherlock was to be lyrical about it, he would say that each stretching mark of the scar was a story, a promise that John would live, or a clue as to who he would meet. He couldn't resist touching it, his delicate fingers tracing the outline of the rip-like pattern. John had spent years hating the damn thing. Sherlock, after a few moments, loved the thing. His thick lips met against the change in tone, in texture. Scar tissue was always paler, softer than normal skin, Sherlock found, and he wanted to worship it. He wanted his lips to press against every millimeter of the man's scar. He wanted his tongue to taste every part of it. 

It was John's turn, while Sherlock was preoccupied with using that brilliant mouth of his, to carefully work Sherlock's shirt of. He wanted to tug at it, rip at it, tear the ridiculous thing apart. It was always too small for him, anyway. But he knew Sherlock would hate that, he'd be angry. What Sherlock did seem to appreciate, however, was the precise was in which John worked the shirt of, before letting it fall gracefully to the floor.

His hands were all over Sherlock in an instant. All warmth, and calloused fingers, and steadying touches against the fragile, cold, butterfly body of Sherlock, leaning over to trail kisses from John's scar to his neck. His lips kissed, licked, sucked a thousand bruises, into the sensitive skin. He nibbled and tasted at John's jawline, at his earlobe, leaving a wet trail over the man.

All the while, Sherlock's hands were fumbling at the front of John's trousers. Contact, John's mind supplied, At last, contact. Sherlock's hand was like a magnet, pulling at the zipper on John's jeans as he bucked his hips up into the man. 

"Patience." Sherlock hummed, as he let the trousers tickle their way down John's thighs, pooling at his ankles. John quickly kicked them away, before pulling Sherlock's lips back up to his own, kissing him sloppily, as Sherlock deftly removed his own trousers. 

The cool air hit them both suddenly, and then gradually. The change in temperature had been awful, at first, almost enough to make John think twice about they were doing. But as their bodies adjusted, it only made him want it more. Upon closer inspection, Sherlock's body was not cold, but in fact burning hot, like when you sit too near a very bright light. His marble-like torso pressed against John was beautifully warm and comforting. The heat from Sherlock's hips, pressing against John's erection was -oddly- doubly so.

"Christ.." John moaned, as he rolled his hips against Sherlock's, eliciting a beautiful moan from the man. 

Sherlock quickly sunk to the ground, crouching before John, so his eyes could only see John. And those stupid little red underwear that Sherlock hated. "Oh, John, You're so.." He trailed off, unable to find the right word as he pulled John's pants away. If Sherlock was in charge of the sound effects of his life, he would have added a little 'boing!' as John's glorious, thick, pink cock sprung free. "Fucking hell, John, you're--" He grinned, before he quickly took John into his mouth, without so much as a warning. John could only watch as Sherlock bobbed his head, those beautiful lips stretched around his cock. He could feel the wet, swirling tongue at his slit, then flat against his cock. 

"Fuck!" John groaned, as Sherlock hollowed out those perfect, high cheekbones. Tight, Christ, Sherlock's mouth was so tight and warm and decidedly _wet_. Sherlock was relentless, his hand reaching up to gently fondle at John's balls. He felt the doctor twitch beneath his touch perfectly, gaining a content hum from Sherlock. Chain reaction - John groaned again, hand flying up to cover his mouth, trying to keep the sound inside. 

"Jesus, Sherlock, that's.. that's.." He said, absently, his hands tangling on Sherlock's curls, as the man pulled his mouth off with a vulgar little 'pop'. Groaning at the loss of sensation, John sunk back against the wall. Sherlock, looking up at his handiwork, couldn't help but smile.

"I'd like to fuck you, now." Sherlock said, after a moment. 

John should have said no. Not here, not now. 

"I promise I wont be too loud, if you wont." Sherlock smiled, and how could John resist. Grabbing him by his shoulder, John pushed Sherlock down onto his childhood bed, which creaked beneath them. It probably wasn't used to the weight, but thankfully did not make that sound again. Sherlock and John, however, made every sound imaginable, as they kissed, again, bare cocks rubbing and sliding against each other's. 

"On your hands and knees, please." Sherlock hummed, as John did just that, his arse facing Sherlock.

His hands trailed over the skin, giving John's plush arse a firm squeeze. He was so bloody fuckable. If Sherlock was a bad man, he would have fucked him into the mattress then and there, with no preparation. But Sherlock Holmes could sometimes be a good man, and knew he had to take this slow. (Unless, judging by John's wanton moan, that in fact made him bad?)

"Get on with it!" John groaned, pushing his hips back into the touch, his cock hanging hot and heavy between them. "I--I'm clean, Sherlock, I--"

"--Me too." Sherlock quickly replied, in a low, quiet voice, as he took his index finger into his mouth, and unceremoniously pushed it into John's entrance. 

"Christ!" John called out, the muscles of his arse anchoring around Sherlock's finger, "Jesus, haven't you got any--"

"I have Vaseline." Sherlock hummed, quietly, as he wiggled his finger. Oh, God, John was tight. He could feel every little part of the man, inside the man he loved.

"Then bloody use it!" John chuckled, waiting as John leant over him, and reached into his bedside table for the tub of Vaseline, his finger still firmly inside the smaller man. "Thank you, love." 

Sherlock liberally applied the cold gel, the temperature making John's entrance twitch slightly, which only made Sherlock smile. Swirling the clear substance against John's hole, the man soon was able to push in the finger with relative ease, John's moans telling him it was a much welcomed action. Carefully, he circled the digit within the man, aiming not only for that pleasant feeling of intrusion, but to relax the man. Soon, Sherlock was able to press a second finger into the hole.

"Fucking hell..." John groaned, his fingers gripping tightly into the bed sheets, as Sherlock scissored at John's hole, stretching him open. He met some resistance here, but John's growling moan told Sherlock that the sensation was one that was completely enjoyed, and so Sherlock pushed the doctor further, watching in awe as the man's hole stretched out before him, opening him further. The third finger was a little tighter within John, now, but he still kept working, teasing, hooking and massaging within the man. "Sherlock--I'm--" John slurred, rocking himself back against Sherlock's beautiful fingers, a choked beg for more. "Please--"

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice, sitting up on his knees as he pulled his throbbing cock out of is silk underwear. Giving himself a few strokes, Sherlock coated himself in the Vaseline. Fireworks of pleasure bolted through him, and it took all his willpower not to just stroke it out of himself, then and there. But he wanted John. He needed John more than anything. "Ready?" He asked, watching John nod in reply as he carefully pushed himself into John. 

"Fuck!" Neither were sure who said that. They would argue about it later, but it didn't really matter. Not with the new fullness John was feeling. Not with the sheer fact that Sherlock was inside John, feeling him stretch and cling to his cock. He waited, still and calm, to feel John twitch and adjust to the feeling. His warm, tight hole was so brilliant, so perfect, so snug and John. "Please.." One of them muttered.

With that singular word, that singular call of desperation set them off. Sherlock was a beast, his hands like claws as he clamped onto John's shoulders, to try and get the best leverage as he began to pull his hips back, slowly. Then slide back in. Again, and again, at an almost tortuously slow pace. It must have looked ridiculous, some strange porno, buffering with slow internet, or something. But Christ, was it fantastic to feel so full, so needed, so alive.

"Sherlock.." John had groaned, as the detective's short, perfectly kept fingernails dug into John's shoulders. "It's fine, love, you can...please?"

"Ugh." Was Sherlock's grunt of a reply, before he slammed his hips into John.

Another groan, again, unidentified from who's voice it came from. Again, he pulled his hips back, sliding part the way out of the John's entrance, before pumping back into him, in once swift, strong movement. 

"I need-" "-I know."

Without another word, Sherlock began to fuck John with fervent intensity. The sound of skin slapping against skin, as their sweat-damp skin sparkled in the dim light. John's moans filled the air, complimented by the rough grunting fucking of Sherlock. He was like an animal, that mask, that facade of calm composure was gone, at last, and it was only for John. He angled himself up and deep within John, brushing relentlessly against John's prostate with each thrust. A blur of moment, and desperation, the two fucked, until Sherlock could feel his balls tightening, tingling, desperate for his release. 

"Need come." He groaned, articulating his desire with two quick, short thrusts.

"Inside me." John replied, a moan bubbling in his chest. One. Two. Three more thrusts. "Now."

Gone.

Sherlock came, his cock lurching forwards, so he was buried to the hilt within John, his hot, thick release spilling within John, with a low, wordless groan. He was like a felled tree, slumped against John's back, his lazy hand reaching down, and under to pull and tug at John's cock. His hips made tiny movements - his over-sensitive cock quivered with the action - listening, as John's once soft moans became more like the instinctual grunts Sherlock had been making. It was only a handful of tugs until John, too, was coming, the sticky substance falling onto his hand and bed sheets.

" 'Mazing." John breathed, after a moment of him shaking to try and keep Sherlock's weight on top of him. For somebody so skinny, the man was a bloody lump of a thing.

Sherlock remained quiet for quite some time, just breathing, watching, thinking. John had thought maybe he'd fallen asleep, and contemplated trying to help the man pull out of him, without waking him.

"Thank you." Sherlock whispered, quietly, as he slowly pulled away from his lover. Some part of him wished he could stay there forever. Maybe they could experiment, later, with how long John would allow Sherlock to be within him, without actually fucking. No, that sounded vulgar. Not worthy of John. How long would John allow Sherlock to be inside him, without making love. That sounded better.

"Sherlock, You don't need to say that--"

"--Wanted to." He replied, quickly. Of all the possible effects of sex on Sherlock Holmes, John really did not expect it to be complete numbing of the brain, the rendering useless of his mouth, and loss of coherent sentences. "Boyfriend?"

"Boyfriend. Definitely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Secondly, I'm so sorry. That was just 4000 words worth of porn. Happy new year! 
> 
> Also: talk to me about Sherlock S3E1, without spoilers for all out less fortunate, Not-British fans, please!


	19. January 1st

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The morning...after? Does that phrase still apply if it's the same morning?
> 
> Also I'm so sorry I'm so slow. It's really hard writing romance with a broken heart *Sherlock plays a tiny violin*

When John awoke the next morning, his whole body ached. The sun filtered through the little gap in Sherlock's curtains, casting a strip of light, like a runway, towards the door. Tangled impossibly in the thin duvet of Sherlock's bed, it took John approximately twelve seconds to register that he was, in fact, in Sherlock's bed, as the hazy events of last night rained back over him. Drenched in the memories, John was still deciding whether or not he regretted _it_ when he stretched out, rolling onto his side.

Only, Sherlock wasn't actually there. 

Reaching out, John's hand flattened onto the spot where the lanky detective should have been, laying sprawled out, taking up far to much of the bed. Had the man not been of a naturally romantic disposition, he might have through that the warmth might have come from the heat of the winter sun, through the thin curtains. Had he been a logical man, he might have even suggested that it was due to his own body heat. Maybe he had spread out in the night, after Sherlock eventually left him. 

Because of course Sherlock left him. Sherlock was always leaving. Boiling things up to that pinnacle point, just where you gasp for you last breath before submerging yourself in the deep water of whatever it was they were doing, here. And then leaving. John would always be chasing after Sherlock Holmes, always be one step behind, always racing to catch up with the brilliant man. Sherlock Holmes was a bolt of lightning, one moment there, the next gone. John would always be the thunder, racing after him. 

But, John - His mind perked up - hadn't you been told that thunder was part of the lightning? It was just that light travels faster than sound? Thunder and lighting were the same moment, it was only time that showed them as separate. 

After quickly pulling on some boxers, John dressed in his usual jeans-and-jumper combo, before he wandered downstairs, through the vast corridors which felt so much wider now. The wooden flooring did not seem to shine with so much lustre as it had earlier in the week. In fact, the wood almost seemed dull. The walls were not such a vibrant, royal shade of red, but now were a more dull burgundy colour. The corridors were no longer a show of the Holmes empire, but a barrier between the outside world, and the rooms hidden within. The rooms which hid the silly drawings of aliens, that hid the unyielding light and warmth that had been so masterfully disguised with this show. Once you knew that it was all just a facade, it was easy to see the flaws. 

John wandered into the kitchen, his bare feet cold against the slate tiled flooring. In the center of the room, Sherlock was sat talking quietly with his brother. Both had steaming mugs of something, which they clung to like gossiping mothers. 

When John reached into one of the cupboards for a mug, Mycroft fell silent. John didn't need to turn his back to see that the older Holmes would be nudging Sherlock, naughty children caught in the act. John also didn't need to ask to know that they were discussing him. _And then he did this- And said that - And, Oh, Mycroft, aren't ordinary people adorable?_.

With a deep steadying breath (one that could not straighten out the frown on his thin lips), John filled the kettle, and set it on to boil. Soon, that deep rumbling, bubbling sound filled the room, louder and louder, until John wasn't sure if the low hum was from Sherlock's voice, or the kettle. Either way, both would burn him if he was to touch the source. 

Taking his cup of freshly made tea into his hand - milk, no sugar - John made to leave, carefully holding the cup in both hands, as not to spill the liquid, despite how the china burned his skin.

"Where are you going?" _Sherlock_.

John, to this day, will swear he didn't nearly drop the cup. Sherlock will always reply that John was lying. "Out." John had replied, not bothering to turn to face the man. He couldn't look at him, now, not look at those eyes, those brilliant cheekbones, and perfect lips, and not break inside. Sherlock had left. He knew that code, knew what that meant. Hell, he'd done it before countless times. You leave in the morning, you don't want anything more. It was over. 

"Why?" Sherlock had replied, persistent as ever. John could hear the way the man's fingers drummed against the table, a steady beat. Four digits, then start again. 

"Because I don't want to be inside." 

"But I'm inside." Sherlock replied, risking a glance at Mycroft, who was only sat smirking to himself. Mycroft was Sherlock's guide, his judge, his magistrate on all things life. Just because Mycroft didn't do being with people, that didn't mean that Mycroft didn't understand them. Mycroft was one of the most manipulative men John had ever know. Mycroft saw everything in anyone he met, and knew exactly how to work that. 

"Yes, I know." John replied, with a shrug, finally turning to glance at Sherlock. "Which is exactly why I want to be outside, now if you'll excuse me --"

"-No." Mycroft interjected, chair screeching against the floor as he stood. "Excuse me. I'll leave you two in peace." And with a quick nod at John, Mycroft left the room, leaving a humid silence between the lovers that now remained in the room. The lack of everything was suffocating: a lack of contact was dehydrating, the lack of words was deafening, the lack of reassurance was a murderous force in John's mind. Talk to me, it screamed in it's dying breaths, Tell me what's going on. Why did you leave.

"I should probably explain." Sherlock breathed, as if he'd heard John's prayers, his silent pleas to the wingless angel before him. 

"Yeah, maybe." John replied, with a shrug. 

"Mycroft told me--"

"You told Mycroft." John spluttered, eyes widening slightly into that face that Sherlock had identified as 'Why-did-you-do-that'. Sherlock couldn't answer that question, this time. He'd always tell Mycroft, tell him everything. Even if he didn't want to. He told him everything. It was how it worked between, them, an exchange of information posing as brotherly affection, in place of their co-dependence long lost in their memories. Maybe Mycroft missed that. Sherlock didn't.

"Yes. I did." Sherlock replied, taking a deep breath, as he pushed his tea away from him. "I.. I was wrong to have left." Sherlock breathed.

John paused. Licked his lips. Sipped his tea. "Yes, you were." 

"You felt alone. Abandoned." Sherlock pointed out, although John had a small feeling that he didn't understand. Maybe it was Mycroft who'd told Sherlock that it was wrong to leave. Maybe it wasn't. All John knew was that his next reply was Sherlock. One hundred percent. "I should have been there."

John sighed, shaking his head. Damn right Sherlock should have been there. He should have been the one who woke up first - Sherlock rarely liked to sleep anyway. Or maybe Sherlock would have tried. Maybe he would have pretended to have his eyes closed, act to be asleep until John woke, so that he could just stay beside John for a moment longer. Sherlock would have been wrapped around John, his lings clinging to him like a vine, or perhaps he wouldn't have been touching him at all. Maybe Sherlock would be frightened to touch John in case he broke. "Maybe. I don't know, look-" 

"No." Sherlock interrupted, suddenly standing, "I don't _do_ relationships, John. They're messy, and complicated, and people are selfish, and manipulative, and people only ever end up getting hurt. I've only done.. _that_ once before, and it nearly killed me. And I wish that was figuratively, but it's not. I didn't know i was meant to stay. Nobody ever stayed for me, How was I meant to know? ." Sherlock explained, his thick brows furrowed in a frown. Sherlock was trembling, his eyes locked on his hands, which he wrung and twisted, pulling at his fingers, and pinching at the skin on his hand until it went all pink and blotchy. "I don't know how to love somebody, I was never taught how."

Silence.

The sound of a bird outside, maybe it would be a robin. Perched on a fence, watching them. It was oddly comforting to think of everything around them, from the movement of Mycroft around the old building, the the Holmes family all oblivious to the secret the three of them now shared, from the sound of a distant clock, the gentle hum of the fridge, the wind outside, all down to the beating of that little bird's heart. The world around them continued, even though the two were frozen in that moment. 

"I'll teach you." John replied, after a moment, his voice quiet, as steady as the soldier could manage, as his eyes fixed on Sherlock's. "I'll teach you. I'll show you how to love somebody. I'll love you."

Sherlock exhaled, careful and calm. "I'll love you, too."

And that was as close as they would get to saying it. Not that they needed to. 

They both knew.


	20. February 14th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I sort of didn't finish this for a while. Truth is, I went through a shitty break up. Note to self: Don't get cheated on whilst writing a romance story. It sorts for a broken heart and terrible writing.

It was still cold, as John wandered home from work on that Friday afternoon. Friday's were meant to be date nights. Before Christmas, he probably would have called up Sarah or Jeanette to see if they wanted to maybe just go out for a bite to eat. Nothing serious, of course. John didn't do serious, not because he was unable to maintain the commitment, but because he was an idiot (a notion which a certain detective would not let go of,and took great pleasure in announcing at regular intervals). However it was that he'd managed to go all those years of mindless dating, as 'filler' for the gap between then and [i]Sherlock[/i], was a mystery not even the sleuth himself could solve. 

"Maybe you weren't ready to love me, yet." Sherlock had suggested one time, and that was probably about as close as they were going to get to 'case closed' on the matter of John's questionable sexuality. Which was fine. It was all fine. 

Yet, after Christmas, date nights were.. well.. equally as strange. Sometimes there'd be a case, and John would feel as though he was third-wheeling on some... [i]really[/i] strange rendezvous with a murderer. Sometimes, it would be John who let Sherlock down. 'Sorry, love. Gotta work late. I'll make it up to you, promise. x JW' was the usual text. And Sherlock was really good about it, usually. Sometime's he'd throw a strop, and John would come home later to find Sherlock dozing on the sofa, clutching at a bouquet of Daffodils (John was beginning to regret telling Sherlock that they were his favourite) and a meal prepared for him on the table, with a little note saying '[i]Enjoy, Doctor.[/i] When that happened, John knew he was forgiven.

Tonight, John and Sherlock staying in, as they usually did. Sherlock hated to make a fuss, much preferring to have John all to himself, pretending not notice how their legs were touching as they watched Doctor Who, or James Bond, or some other 'mindless drivel' Sherlock had to endure. Sometimes, Sherlock would cuddle into John, sometimes he wouldn't.

Other times, he wouldn't let go at all, and those were the best nights of them all.

The moment John entered Baker Street that night, he could already hear Sherlock talking. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to talk to himself, he always had. It was adorable, and sometimes John would overhear him saying little things, unexpected phrases and words. Things he'd never admit to, like the time John had caught him theorizing about Doctor Who. Sherlock denied it for weeks afterwards, claiming he hated the show, and that it was full of flaws and stupid, predictable characters. John could see that Sherlock loved it, though. 

"...There should be bees. How many bees? I don't know, why would I know? Of course I'd know, I'm Sherlock Holmes. John wouldn't know. He doesn't even know about the bees. 50,000 bees in a colony. We'll move to Devon, and we'll have a whole colony. I'll need a queen. I could be the queen bee? No, Course I can't. I'll be the keeper. Plus, I'm human." Sherlock was rambling away, lying on his back on the sofa, eyes firmly squeezed shut. He obviously hadn't heard John enter, nor the creek on the 9th stair, or the way he clumped around the living room, kicking off his shoes, and pulling off his coat. 

John had decided to let Sherlock ramble for a while. He tended to be irritable if John interrupted him, anyway. Something to do with trains of thoughts and valuable, almost inaccessible, knowledge. John rarely questioned it. 

"John Hamish Watson-Holmes. King of the Bee Keeper." Sherlock mumbled, before giggling, "It's so sad bees might only live 40 days..." He sighed, beginning his endless ramble once again. John, however, was speechless.

"John Hamish.. Watson-Holmes?" He repeated, his cheeks flushing. Sherlock still didn't stir from his 'mind palace', obvious far to lost within the endless corridors and staircases to come out, just yet. The way John could justify Sherlock's words were thus: firstly: He was high. He could only hope that wasn't the case. Sherlock had been doing so well with all of his habits. He'd quit smoking for almost two months, now. 

The second option was that Sherlock was confused. That perhaps he was so lost in thought that words and ideas had got muddled. Or maybe, Sherlock was thinking about marriage. For them. For both of them.

"Watson-fucking-Holmes." John chuckled, watching as Sherlock's arms stretched out over his head, fingers wriggling a little. "You're such an idiot, Sherlock." He breathed, not knowing if Sherlock could hear him from the depths of his palace, but not caring either way.

With a smile, he moved to climb onto the man's lap, settling so he had one leg either side of the man's slender hips. Gently, he raised his hand to thread through the man's dark hair, curling the locks between his fingers. "What about Sherlock Holmes-Watson?" He whispered.

"Watson-Holmes." Sherlock had mumbled decisively, arms going limp, as John froze. Christ, if he was aware, again, John would not know how to explain himself. Nor did he want to attempt to, in all honestly. '[i]Hi, Sherlock.. I heard you talking about my name if I married you, so I just wanted to.. pet you a while?'[/i] Not good. Really not good. Yet, thankfully, the man remained as he was, still lost in thought. 

Timidly, John leant forwards to press a kiss to Sherlock's lips. "I'd say yes, you silly man. You know I would." He hummed, before climbing off the man, and heading over to the kitchen to prepare their valentines meal (which John definitely hadn't been extensively planning for the last week).

Only, John could have sworn he's seen Sherlock grin as he wandered away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you have it. I hope you enjoyed it. I certainly have! I really had no idea how I wanted to end this, but i knew I wanted to do something. I don't know if I've spoiled it, I really hope I haven't. But here you go! Love you all! Thank you for reading!


End file.
